


Whitechapel

by BeesAreAwesome



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bedlam asylum, But Not Dean or Cas, Character Death, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gang Violence, Gay Panic, Historical Accuracy, Jack the Ripper AU, Knife and Blood Play, M/M, Murder, Non-Explicit Kink, Non-Explicit Sex, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Psychiatrist!Sam, Rope Bondage, SPN Dark Fic Big Bang 2019, Unreliable Narrator, also non-explicit, cocaine and heroine were sold over the counter, dead prostitutes, detective!dean, improper use of suspenders, period typical drug abuse, surgeon!Cas, the author took some liberties, victorian london, whoreaphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-11 22:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 46,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeesAreAwesome/pseuds/BeesAreAwesome
Summary: Chaos reigns in the streets DI Winchester has sworn to protect. A series of murders have arisen out of the poverty and desperation of the East End slums, and it is his task to hunt the man responsible.His brother Samuel, a notable psychiatrist at Bedlam Hospital, and Castiel, the precinct’s surgeon, are always at his side to lend a hand. Between Dean’s altruism, Castiel’s cleverness, and Sam’s attention to detail, they’re certain they can catch the killer at large.But each man has his own twisting darkness within him. Tension rises quickly as they spiral out of control and the body count continues to rise. No one can be truly certain that each man is innocent, nor whom they can trust.





	1. August 31, 1888

**Author's Note:**

> It was such an amazing and educational journey writing this fic; so much research was involved that some days I spent more time looking up history than actually writing. I hope you all enjoy this labor of love as much as I do!
> 
> Give a huge round of applause to the fabulous Dani (lotrspnfangirl) for all the wonderful graphics and manips she created! She has provided art for many fics and is also a fantastic writer. Go check her other stuff out! You can find her [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl), and the art master post [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20567753).
> 
> Also a huge thanks to the alpha/beta team who took the time and care to help make this fic feel polished and complete.  
[Huntress79](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntress79/pseuds/Huntress79)  
[justanotherbusyfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherbusyfangirl/pseuds/justanotherbusyfangirl)  
[BlindSwandive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive/pseuds/BlindSwandive)
> 
> And a Special thanks to Rachel for coming on with little notice to help get rid of any glaring Americanisms!  
[tfw_cas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfw_cas/pseuds/tfw_cas)
> 
> I've provided a lexicon of Victorian slang and various terminology at the end of each chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> Also note, the MCD is not Dean or Cas.

** _Part 1: The Body _ **

A lone carman, Charles Allen Cross, walks through the early morning London streets. It’s 3:30 AM. He is on his way to work, just past Buck’s Row, where the railroad station holds his delivery cart. As Charles is about to enter the Buck’s Row stable entrance to collect his team for the night, he notices a woman lying prone on the cobbles, skirts and petticoats ridden up to expose bloomers covered in the grime of the streets. They had certainly seen better days.

He notes the approach of a fellow carman, another man employed by the railway to deliver parcels throughout Whitechapel and Shadwell. “Oi, Robert! Come and have a look see. What you reckon?”

The other man crosses over, and the two men walk to where the woman has fallen. “I reckon she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid-tumble.”

Charles shrugs his shoulders and bends a knee down to the cobbles, taking his flat-cap off, clutching it to his chest. “I think she’s dead. I’ll bet you tuppence.” 

Robert kneels down beside him and places a hand on the woman’s skirts, lowering them over her bloomers for a bit of modesty. “I’ll take the egg. I say she’s sleepin’. Half-shot, like I said.”

The two men spend several minutes debating the state of the woman before them when heavy footsteps begin to echo through the empty street, a sound that comes from everywhere all at once, lost to direction in the early morning fog. Charles squints his eyes at what looks to be a police constable walking the streets on his beat. He rushes over to the man and ushers him to the woman’s body. "She looks to be either dead or drunk, but for my part, I believe she's dead." 

Constable Fitzgerald examines the woman, declaring that she is, in fact, deceased, then flashes his lantern to gather the attention of other constables patrolling the Whitechapel streets. “You see, gentlemen, hidden there by the lace of her bonnet, a deep wound to her throat.”

Charles claps Robert on the back in consolation, having himself gained a tuppence from the affair. After being questioned, and determining that the two men know nothing of the events that transpired that evening, they are sent on their way, arguing back and forth as they slowly make their way to work, freshly acquired stable horses in hand. 

The body of the woman, at first glance, seems to have been killed elsewhere, then moved to her current position. The good surgeon Novak is called for to investigate the scene more thoroughly. 

Several knackers from the street over, who had been on carcass removal overnight, join in the hubbub of investigation, each curious for a glimpse at death. Upon questioning, though, none of them claim to have seen anything suspicious or untoward during their nighttime shift, nor have any of the residents living at Buck’s Row taken note of any odd occurrences. 

By 4 AM, there is a small crowd surrounding the body of the woman, PCs and gawpers alike. Dr. Castiel Novak has to wedge his way through the gathering crowd as he enters upon the morbid scene. The woman’s body has quite clearly been tampered with since she was left for dead outside the stable gates, and Castiel has to grit his teeth not to lash out at the incompetence of those around him.

“We believe the body was moved here from a previous location, sir,” the young rookie constable murmurs shyly at him. Fitz-something, Castiel thinks. “There’s not much blood to be seen, and due to the injury about her neck, well… Shouldn’t there be pools about, sir?”

Castiel sighs and kneels to the level of the empty shell before him. He closely inspects her clothing and hair, and gently rolls her body to the side to uncover a congealed mass below her. 

“See how her garments have become sodden? There is a lot more here than can be seen by the untrained eye. Her gown here has captured a considerable amount of blood, concealing the evidence within the fibres. And here. Beneath her is your pool, Fitzedmond.”

“Fitzgerald… Sir”

Castiel ignores being corrected and goes back to his analysis. “There is no evidence that she was staged to be found here; this is precisely where she was slain. Her throat was sliced, not once, but twice. The pattern of the wounds indicate a left-handed attacker. See here how the direction of the cuts run from the left side of her neck, where the wound is deepest, to the right, where it tapers to naught but a shallow laceration?” He points with his finger across the woman’s throat as PC Fitz-something leans over in rapt interest.

Castiel presses his hands over various parts of her clothing feeling for signs of additional trauma, cocking his head to the side as he finds a deep wound beneath the bodice of her gown. He moves the cloth of the garment away to reveal multiple incisions running across the center and left side of her abdomen. One especially jagged cut looks like it was meant to disembowel. At a periphery glance, no organs seem to be missing, though he is certain that upon further investigation, that will not be the case. Castiel makes note of this, and tells the PCs his speculations.

“Call for the ambulance and have her body taken to the exam room at Lemen Street. I shall need to inspect her internal injuries to be certain, but I suspect that at least one, if not several, pieces of her are no longer within her body. Also, take note of the Lambeth workhouse laundry mark upon her petticoats, for that’s where you will find who she is.”

Fitz-something nods once, then runs off to his task of calling the police wagon to the scene. He is replaced by the looming figure of detective inspector Winchester; a touch late to the scene per usual, though never an unhappy sight for Castiel. A warm hand lands on his shoulder as the other man greets him.

“Up to your elbows in blood, Cas. This is how I always end up witnessing you on these dark, dreary nights.” His voice is almost sing-song as he announces the sentiment, and his green eyes shine with a hint of inappropriate mirth.

Castiel simpers playfully up at the man, then stands to greet him, eye to eye. “Dean! It seems I should start wearing gloves. Have you any upon your person you’d care to sully with me this evening?”

Dean huffs out a small laugh, then lets the amusement slide from his face as he looks down upon the disfigured corpse strewn inelegantly on the cobbled walkway. “The rage of this city is indomitable. Does it never get to you?” 

Cas looks to his bloodied hands and shrugs, refusing to meet the other man’s eyes, lest his current affect be discovered. Castiel is not bothered by the carnage, though he knows he should be.

** _ Part 2: The Autopsy _ **

Castiel had been correct in regards to missing parts. The woman, identity still unknown, is missing a large piece of her uterus. The precision in which the killer ripped his victim apart is dizzying, and Castiel has to take a moment to breathe deep to steady his whirring mind, thankful to have the room to himself.

He imagines taking two powerful swings to the woman’s throat, blade in hand, bathing in the spray of salty blood. A shiver runs down his spine as he tastes the metallic essence on his lips. He then pictures himself cutting open her limp carcass with one violent pull from sternum to hip, opening her soft belly to remove the offending organ. She has done something she shouldn’t have; this is retribution. Castiel revels in being the killer. He takes another deep breath, then opens his eyes.

His reverie doesn’t last long, though, for detective inspector Winchester enters the room unannounced with quiet determination. “Mary Ann Nichols, or Polly to her friends. She was working the streets, trying to earn her bed for the night at the Spitalfields common house.” Dean raises his eyes from the file he’s holding and gives Cas a once over. The surgeon is wearing his leather autopsy apron, and has the sleeves of his white work shirt rolled high up his arms, careful not to get his garments mucked with viscera. Though Dean notes that, yet again, he is elbows deep in it. He smiles, then looks back to his file.

“She was sighted leaving a pub at Spitalfields at half twelve, then an hour later was turned away from the common house for not having her fourpence, where she was stated to say, ‘I’ll make that three-fold with my jolly bonnet.’ Which apparently, she did. Her roommate from the common house stated she saw her at half two near Osborn and Whitechapel road after a lucrative evening, though still without her fourpence, as she had continued on with her evening of drunken merriment. And that is the last she was reported as seen prior to the discovery of her body.”

The details of miss Polly’s night are inconsequential to Cas, but he follows along with rapt attention nonetheless, and watches the way Dean’s mouth forms the words he speaks as they escape his lips and flow into the air between them. Castiel has always been fascinated by Dean; a righteous creature if there ever was one, always a champion to those in need. Yet there is a darkness within him that few, other than Castiel, have borne witness to. 

“What have you, Cas?” Dean looks up again from his file and into Castiel’s blue eyes, taking note at the way he often stares at him without blinking. Somewhat strange, yet somehow endearing. 

“She was certainly ripped by an expert--a professional in the medical field, someone who has intimate knowledge of anatomy.” Cas wipes his hands clean on a towel, then continues, pointing to the appropriate places on the cadaver as he walks Dean through the attack. “At first glance, the wounds look jagged and haphazard, but they are anything but. The placement of each incision is remarkably precise. Look here, see how the main incision runs deep, yet the blade has not nicked the organs within? The first slice to her neck was small, but hit the artery with stunning accuracy, indicating the man knew where to place his knife.”

Dean leans in to watch Castiel’s hands as they move from gaping wound to gaping wound, his face lit with genuine interest. “Fascinating!” 

Castiel can feel Dean’s radiating warmth, like a tickle of sunshine on his cheek. He is loathe to put distance between them, but feels he must else he unwittingly drop pretense and do something entirely foolish. He steps back and unties his apron, moving across the room to hang it on the designated peg.

“What are these bruises here? Was she struck?” Dean is leaning over the corpse, examining the woman’s face closely.

“Clever eye, sir.” Cas rests his gaze on the purple marks across the woman's jaw, then walks back to the table and lines his fingers up with the bruising. “She was held in place, like so, with the killers right hand. I posit he used his grip to expose her throat, allowing better reach to slash from ear to trachea.”

“Excellent work, Cas. I will bring your report to Samuel forthwith. Perhaps he can glean some insight into this killer’s mind. He has dedicated much of his time to studying the common lunatic, after all.” 

“But there is nothing common about this man, Dean,” Cas retorts. “Perhaps not even a lunatic at all, as I am quite certain he has full admission to his faculties. I sense this is only the beginning.”

“Let’s pray you are wrong.” Dean speaks the last softly and with a frown turns to leave. He hesitates for a moment at the door, then turns his eyes back to Castiel almost shyly. “Would you like to accompany us for drinks this evening? Ten Bells?”

Castiel almost refuses by reflex. Ten Bells is a popular place to find a tart-and-tumble, and he is positive that is what Dean has in mind when suggesting the pub. It’s something Dean is known for, and is often teased about how many toffers he might take to bed in a week (although Castiel knows the number is not as preposterous as all the rumors would suggest). In fact, Castiel knows for truth that the woman on the table has been in the company of Dean on more than one occasion, but elects to keep this bit to himself (and out of the reports). There’s no need to place unwarranted suspicion on the detective inspector, after all. He is no killer. Castiel determines he should attend, if only on the basis that he’d rather provide a distraction in hopes to keep Dean’s “prodigious engine” from falling off at the base, and so inclines his head, a brief nod of assent, and smiles at Dean. “Of course.”

Dean beams like the sun and Castiel would like nothing more than to bathe in the glow.

** _ Part 3: The Public House _ **

When Sam enters the Ten Bells Public House, he is delighted to find his brother already holding a corner table, and quickly walks over to join him and the well coiffed, elegant man beside him.

“Sammy!” Dean stands up to hug him when his excited, green eyes land upon his face. He then turns and gestures to the dark haired man sat at the table, sipping delicately at his whiskey. “This is my friend and colleague, Castiel. Cas, this is my brother Samuel.” He then opens his posture and holds out his arm to indicate to Sam he should sit and join them.

They immediately share a bit of small talk amongst themselves, Dean gushing about Sam’s wife, Amelia, and how they are the perfect pair, and have they plans to host a dinner party any time soon? Sam notes the polite nod of Castiel’s head as they chit chat, but also his undeniable lack of interest. Sam quickly turns the topic to his work at Bethlem. Perhaps if Castiel learns of his professional exploits, he will become interested.

“As I’m sure Dean has mentioned, I study the defected mind at Bethlem Royal Hospital. Lunatics are a fascinating study, wouldn’t you agree?”

Castiel’s eyes grow more animated (or rather, they shift almost imperceptibly to a more interested manner) at the turn of conversation. “Yes, indeed. Dean has mentioned you’ve been working on a comparative study of the affected brain and the sane mind. Have you noted any differences during your post mortem exams?”

Dean stands up and heads to the bar to order a round of whiskey for the table, leaving Cas and Sam to discuss at their leisure. He has been well talked at on this subject already, and sees his opportunity to ignore it to find pursuits of a more nourishing (alcoholic) nature. 

Sam leans forward and eagerly divulges his research. “Yes and no. When the mind is demented, there are visible holes in the brain, and often accompanied by little hardened plaques. This case is almost always true. However, when the subject is suffering from melancholia alone, there is no discernible difference from the sane man’s brain. Though, I have noticed a slight discoloration on the right hemisphere of one particular subject who suffered from both melancholia and feeblemindedness. The discolored area had very small, hard to detect areas of atrophy, or possible underdevelopment.”

Castiel in turn leans forward with interest. “I would love to come by Bedlam and see your notes, if you will permit me to do so. Perhaps I could provide you with some further insight, from the surgical and investigative perspectives. This work is fascinating, in truth.”

Castiel leans back and takes a swallow out of his tumbler, and Sam would follow suit, but he has failed to acquire his whiskey, as it seems Dean has become distracted by a tart near the bar and lingers to smile beautifully at her for a moment before sauntering back. 

Dean sets the new glasses at the table, and Sam takes a long swallow of the swill being offered to him, making a face of discontent. “You have yet to refine your distinguished tastes, oh brother mine.” Sam takes another sip as Dean makes an impolite gesture, then returns to Castiel. “To answer you, yes. I would be delighted to have you to my office. I can call on you when the next round of autopsies are prepared.”

Castiel’s eyes are smiling at the invitation, though his face remains decidedly neutral, and Sam can’t help but internally run through his list of profiles at the man. Castiel is someone who prefers to always remain in control, rarely letting affect get the better of him even in times of great excitement. Unlike Dean, on the other hand, who seeks out loss of inhibition with almost unquenchable fervor. Quite the pair the two make; Sam thinks that Castiel likely keeps Dean focused and in his right place whilst working their criminal cases. 

Sam is quite insightful at reading the minute expressions often lost to the everyday man, those little tics and twitches that no one notices unless looking deep and with great scrutiny. It is second nature to him now. He notes that Castiel has yet to make eye contact with Dean since Sam joined their table, though the two men were head to head, deep in conversation when he first approached. Curious. Almost as if Castiel is consciously avoiding Dean’s gaze for Sam’s sake. Or perhaps, does not wish Sam to see what lies inside when he does chance a look. Surely Dean has mentioned how good he is at reading people, and Castiel may suspect he’ll be caught in some secret thought should he look. Sam squints his eyes, and decides to see what is there when Castiel finally does allow himself a glance. 

As Sam continues his internal profile of Cas, the file of Mary Ann Nichols is handed over to him for his perusal, and Sam pauses his thoughts to read through the reports with lightning quick efficiency.

“She is missing five teeth. A trophy, perhaps? I met a man in Bedlam who killed his wife with ease, then kept her pickled heart in a jar for keepsake. He claimed it was the only way to have her for himself and not be cuckolded. Could this be the same agenda?”

“None of her missing teeth were found about the scene, so I’m inclined to agree with your assessment," Castiel agrees. "Whoever this man is wants to remember his victim, and not by memory alone. Memories, in and of themselves, are often incomplete, or even embellished. I believe that those who keep a trophy are often those who know how to employ mnemonic devices, using them as a fulcrum of sorts to gain access to perfect memory.”

Sam is floored by the notion and decides to pick the mind of this surgeon fully at a later date. “Now that is not something that has crossed my mind. But it makes sense to a certain degree. I would, however, beg to differ on the grounds that, while some madmen are that sophisticated, most have found themselves to be murderers after fits of passion. Even those who keep a part of the deceased, I would speculate that not many would know how to implement such a fulcrum.”

Castiel furrows his brows, then clarifies. “Perhaps. But I am certain that this killer is one who can. He is highly intelligent, and quite learned in all things medical, and in all likelihood psychological. He will have access to perfect clarity at all times, and will not seem a lunatic, even to the most highly trained, professional eye.”

“How can you be so certain? While I agree that the wounds inflicted upon her body were well and professionally executed, there is no way to determine what intelligence may linger in the wake of his crime.”

Sam can see Castiel tense up at this statement, then immediately drops his eyes to his whiskey and takes a long pull, looking like he is trying to find the right words. Of course, outwardly he looks like he is simply wetting his throat before continuing the discussion, but Sam knows better. 

Castiel then looks back up at Sam, meeting his eyes with determination, finally finding his next words. “There was no evidence at the scene to incriminate. The tart was completely clean of everything other than her own filth. And on top of that, she was staged so it would seem she was moved from a different location, though the why of that remains to be seen. But the fact is, the killer had a motivation to do so, and would have pulled off the chicanery if it weren’t for my own critical eye. He was entirely focused and clear headed when this murder occured. It will make him near impossible to catch. I’m certain he will act again, but do not count on a mis-step to guide you to him like some shining beacon. It will be much harder than that.”

“No," Sam disagrees, "I think if he does it again, he will be easily captured. If he’s as thought out as you say, then there will be a repetition to his actions that will surely point in his direction. And he can only become more slipshod in his methods as time passes, as no man can stay perfect in his actions, no matter how well learned or careful he be. A man such as this has anguished in dark places, repressing his evil inner workings until it has become unbearable. There is always room for great error within such a mind. When he acts again, like you say he must, he will tell us precisely who he is. He will be caught, I say.”

Castiel’s eyes have grown almost imperceptibly sinister over their discourse, though his face yet remains neutral. Sam can see a growing darkness in Castiel that was quite firmly suppressed at his first introduction. And even though the man before him still looks on the surface like an ordinary and charming fellow, Sam sees the small fissures in his facade. He makes a note to study Cas more thoroughly. The invitation to his office will open a door for direct investigation into Castiel’s controlled responses. He suspects that what darkness lies within will have no choice but to escape when presented with death, and the cadavers will provide a perfect catalyst for that change. Sam has, afterall, studied lunatics for many years, and has seen that same hint of otherworldly hatred in the eyes of the (admittingly few) intelligent psychopaths at the asylum. Sam is in a state of excited anticipation at the thought of what the encounter might glean.

Castiel suddenly moves his stare away from Sam and looks at the vacant chair that once housed Dean’s posteriors. Sam follows his eyes and notes him back at the bar, taking a shot of swill, followed by a half. 

“Dean will surely need an escort home.”

Castiel sighs, his dark expression disappearing as he gazes over at Dean, replaced with something almost forlorn, though the nature of it is just out of reach of Sam’s total comprehension. What is that look?

Dean turns his eyes over to the table and sees the pair of them looking his way. “Stepping out for a piss. You ladies continue on!” He wobbles as he makes his way through the surly drunks with a clumsy flourish to a dollymop showing her wares near the door.

“I believe you are correct in that deduction, good sir. Shall we flip for the honour?”

Sam laughs at this, an airy sigh of a sound that lacks in any real mirth, but conveys a silent “oh, Dean, what shall we ever do with you” to the air about them. Sam pulls out a ha’penny and flips it high into the air with his thumb, catching it in the palm of his hand, and quickly closes his fist. “Call it.”

“Heads.”

Sam slaps the penny down and it shows Victoria herself minted in copper. Sam isn’t entirely certain about Castiel’s motives, but he feels like Dean shall be quite safe with the man, especially if any harm should seek to fall Dean’s way. Castiel would no doubt be the man to usher him to safety, and perhaps Sam would have a chance to see the darkness emerge in it’s full capacity. 

“Shall we make sure Dean has not fallen within the public dunny and soiled himself beyond human recognition?” Sam stands and swallows the rest of his whiskey with a wince. As perceptive as he is within the capacity of human behaviour, he is often forgetful of the little things. Like when whiskey is swill, it goes down with a burn, and one should not simply swallow it like water.

Castiel nods his assent, swallowing down the last of his drink in suit, then stands to follow Sam out the door. Castiel sneers in spades at a lingering dollymop who has been trying to catch his eye throughout the night, though Sam does not catch this show of unequivocal animosity, for Castiel has taken the rear, and Sam’s eyes are straight ahead on the lookout for Dean.

It doesn’t take long for the pair of doctors to happen upon the clever inspector. Though clever is not a word to describe his current condition--balls deep within some pinchcock that likely followed him out of the public house. 

Sam can hear Castiel making a small sound beside him, something akin to a fragile hiccough, and sees the man with as open a face as he has all night--not that that’s saying much, as his expression is still highly schooled to the default neutral position. But Sam can see the outrage, indignation, and… what? Surely, is that not jealousy and hurt? Sam makes a small gasp at the implications.

Castiel whips his head to face Sam and makes a small shake of his head, noting Sam’s look of realization. His eyes are wide and imploring for the briefest of moments before again checking his features. He then turns on his heel and flees back to Ten Bells, clearly not intending to further witness Dean’s debauchery.

Sam follows Castiel after a final glance to his brother’s heaving form then re-enters Ten Bells, where he finds the surgeon belly to the bar and downing a glass of rum. He slides into the empty space to Castiel’s left and puts a gentle hand upon the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Castiel, but he is not for you.”

Castiel says nothing and keeps his eyes plastered to the wall behind the bar, waves of frustration smacking into Sam like a monsoon, then beckons the aproner, indicating the need for a refill.

A few awkward moments pass where neither man speaks, interrupted only by a well-squiffed Dean who clumsily places an arm around each man’s shoulder and slurs into the space between them, “‘oos got next, ya blootered sots?”

Sam shakes his head, laughing to himself over the irony of his statement. He is quite used to the way Dean loses himself to the drink, but is assuredly finished bearing witness to it for the evening. “I think it’s time to put you to bed, big brother.” Sam smiles over his shoulder at the drunk and pats the hand resting on his shoulder.

Cas turns his head, but does not quite look at Dean as he agrees in a soft voice, barely audible over the ruckus of the public house. “Yes. You’re hardly in any shape to continue. I shall walk you home. These streets are perilous at night.” Dean hiccoughs in response.

Sam studies Castiel for a moment longer before deciding to honour their previous coin toss: he will allow Castiel to walk his brother home. Despite the flashes of darkness he had witnessed prior, and despite his current deduction that Cas is a buggerer, he feels that Dean is in no danger from the man or his intentions at this time. Cas is likely harmless in all truth, simply harboring past guilt or anger that has manifested in this unfortunate, but relatively innocuous, banal malady. And Dean being a lady’s man, would surely never be caught up in its queer web. 

Sam nods his assent, then calls for a carman to take him back to his rowhouse near Bethlem at Southwark, watching as Castiel props Dean up against his side and starts the tedious chore of getting the sot home.

Dean is a stumbling mess for the entirety of the walk. Castiel frequently has to reach out and steady the man else he crash to the cobbles in an inelegant heap of flailing limbs. He is open and honest in his expression, though the words that pour from his mouth are a slew of incomprehensible rubbish. Castiel remains silent.

His thoughts remain on the knowledge that he let himself slip in front of a man who could potentially be the end of him. He has never spoken aloud of the improbable urges that have disgraced his well-honed mind, nor does he see himself ever doing so to any but a select trusted few. Though, disgraced is, perhaps, not the appropriate word. Castiel doesn’t find his condition morally wrong in and of itself, but society and the laws of man would beg to differ. He has seen both men and women arrested, hanged, institutionalized, shunned, excommunicated, (etc etc etc, the list of punishments are limitless, and in kind limitless in their sincere cruelty and misguidedness) for the crime of sexual abnormality. And Sam is a man who thrives off the study of an abnormal brain. Castiel can imagine himself caged with the beasts of Bedlam, purely on Sam’s wim, and has to hold back a sob of breath that threatens to escape and belie his calm exterior to Dean. Will Castiel one day grace Sam’s cold slab, lying prone next to the cadaver of an ordinary, upright, and assuredly non-deviant citizen? 

Dean has misplaced the master key for the door locks, and so Castiel is forced to wedge himself through the slim window of the foyer to unlock the door from within, seating Dean on the step of the section house and commanding him to stay like some pathetic household dog. Dean obeys.

Once Castiel has Dean up the stairs, careful not to awaken the other policemen resting in the adjoining rooms, he leaves the man floundering to remove his clothes to fetch a pitcher of water for the bedside table. When he comes back into the room, Dean is looking up at him from the foot of the bed, beseeching him for help. “I’m afraid my fingers are at a loss. These buttons be damned.”

Castiel sighs and helps Dean from his shirt and trousers, leaving him in his undergarments to sleep. Before Castiel can gather himself to leave, Dean reaches out to him, grasping his elbow with loose fingers. “You’re not going to stay?”

Castiel furrows his brows in sincere confusion. “I’m not sure why I would. I think you are safe enough to sleep without chaperone.”

“That’s not… You’re different, Cas. Aren’t you.” A statement, not a question. 

Castiel hates that, while Dean is certainly still drunk, he is now speaking clear and concise, which leads Castiel to believe that the man is aware of what he speaks. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Dean may be one of the trusted few he would eventually speak of his condition with, but after a night of drinking and whoring is surely not the time. Castiel continues with his own defence. “Simply because I do not casually partake in the company of those diseased, low women does not make me 'different`.'' He tries to keep the heat from his voice, but is unsuccessful. 

Dean blinks at him, a look of confused melancholy etching itself plainly across his lovely face. He sighs, then leans back on his pillow and closes his eyes briefly while stating bleakly, “I might be different, too.”

Castiel scoffs at this. Dean, the known womanizer, daily with his truncheon firmly wedged within some trollop’s madge, is hardly someone who would dally with the same sex. “I think the drink has befuddled you. Take your rest, and I’ll take my leave.”

Dean responds by pulling Castiel by his arm down to the level of his own face and lifts his head to kiss him. It’s sloppy and there is far too much teeth and tongue, hardly a romantic gesture on Dean’s part, and Castiel is too taken by surprise to react in any other way than to kiss the man back for far too many awkward moments. When his faculties come back to him, the only thoughts that swirl through Castiel’s mind are where Dean’s lips and other parts have already been this evening, and he is thoroughly disgusted. And while he would like nothing more than to embed himself deep within Dean’s posteriors, he cannot justify allowing this to happen when the scent of cheap sex and low women still hangs in the air. 

Castiel quickly pulls himself up and away from Dean, taking several stilted steps towards the door. “Don’t,” is all he says, then turns on his heel and practically scurries through the door in such an undignified manner that he is instantly mortified and makes his best effort to seem the distinguished gentleman for his walk home; shoulders back, chin up, haughty stare, and frock coat done up just so. The show of ostentation comforts him.

Castiel is at war within his own mind for the remainder of his evening. While it would be so easy to take advantage of the situation, and temptingly so, Castiel is queasy at the thought of sharing the man with London’s population of pinchcocks. And so very many there are to contend with. He determines to speak with Dean when they are both clear headed and no drink is involved. It is likely that Dean was purely acting out a drunken whim, a fantasy, or curiosity of sorts, and that he is no more the buggerer than the common man. But perhaps, like Castiel, he is afflicted. He should very much like to get to the bottom of this. 

The following day, Sam looks further into the case files loaned to him by his brother. There is something in the report that seems lacking, and so he elects to conduct his own interviews with miss Nichols’ friends and the regular wenchers at Ten Bells, if anything, to sate his own curiosity.

Upon asking the proper questions, Sam learns in short order that Dean was one of many men who had been a frequent patron of the woman’s services. With Castiel’s insightfulness, and testimony which was clearly redacted from the file, Sam knows that something is being covered up. Perhaps cleverly to most, but not to Sam. He is now fully invested to figure out the truth of this thing. 


	2. September 1-7, 1888

“Leather Apron, you say?” Dean jots down the information in his leather-bound journal, then looks up at the tart he’s been interviewing. She’s a touch worse for wear but, all in all, fairly nice on the eyes. Dean has been trying to keep his mind off the events of Friday last and determines that he should call on her later when his working hours are finished.

“Yeah. Real sinister fella. Grins like no good, excessively repellent, ‘e is. Always wears an apron about his clothes, so me ‘n’ the girls been callin’ ‘im that, ‘ol Leather Apron.”

“And what did this man say to you?” 

“Real demander, ‘e is.‘E said if I didn’t give ‘im my earnin’s ‘e’d rip me apart wit ‘is knife. Stuck the thing right up under my chin, too, and gave me an awful fright.”

Dean writes down a few more lines of notes, then thanks the woman for her time. She is the fifth he has interviewed today that has told the same story. A short, ugly man who always wears a leather apron, a tradesman likely, has been mistreating the covey of London’s harlots, threatening them with the point of a large, sharp knife. By the sound of it, he’s managed to extort several pounds worth of pay in total over the last two weeks, often causing the girls in question to be forced to sleep rough in the park. 

Dean pockets his journal, then gives a last farewell to the woman. “Perhaps I shall seek out your company tonight.” She smiles up at him with (astoundingly) nice teeth as he turns and walks back to Leman.

It has been several days since Mary Ann Nichols was found slain, and the subsequent evening at Ten Bells. Dean has not seen Castiel at Leman Street in the following days, though he is scarce called to attend for anything less than murder, and only then if it is not open and shut. Dean is both thankful and resentful for his absence.

He is certain that he did not misread Cas. The man is near thirty and has never wed, and is seemingly compulsive in his aversion to the matchmaking of his peers. When Mrs Bennett showed him a portrait of her young daughter (she had hopes in marrying off the girl to a well-paid man), Cas openly sneered, even though she was such a fetching lass, and all the men at H-Division stood in line waiting for Mrs Bennett’s approval (PC Fitzgerald was finally awarded the prize of asking her hand, and has been happily wed now for a year).

Dean himself had even been wed many years prior, though it was a short ordeal, as she succumbed to consumption by the time she was aged 19. He has since come to the realization that remaining unattached to women in general is for the best. It’s not truly them he loves, after all. And because of this realization, he has forced himself to keep up the pretense of an ordinary widower, seeking short term affection but, at all mentions of moving on to a new wife, acting the role of the hurt and despairing.

Since Dean concluded that Castiel must be a touch different, much as he himself, he has had frequent daydreams of taking the man and quitting the city to run off to the countryside. Perhaps a little cottage where he could raise chickens, hunt his own deer, and have a quaint, quiet life free of ridicule. Even though many years have passed since the Metropolitan Police last bothered to arrest (or hang) anyone for buggery (too much other chaos to attend to these days), it would still be a shambles should it ever come to light. Dean and Cas would certainly both be let go from their positions of authority and forced to live as beggars and, even more certainly, publicly shunned. But even with the risks, Dean had still been willing to try his hand. Castiel, apparently, is not so prepared to take that gamble. 

Dean is broken out of his reverie at the prepubescent squeaking of a newsboy calling out the morning headlines. “**LEATHER APRON THE ONLY NAME LINKED WITH THE WHITECHAPEL MURDERS! THE STRANGE CHARACTER WHO PROWLS ABOUT AFTER MIDNIGHT. UNIVERSAL FEAR AMONG WOMEN - SLIPPERED FEET AND A SHARP KNIFE!”**

He steps across the cobbled street and purchases a copy of the The Star for halfpenny, then continues his commute back to Leman. 

The article is entirely slanderous of the Hebrew people, presuming Leather Apron to be of their number, and Dean has to pinch the bridge of his nose to stop the imminent headache from coming upon him. In the past years anti-Semitic mentality has been rapidly increasing in London, and with this current headline, Dean can picture the looming riots and a demand for Hebrew blood. His heart sinks at the thought that this hate might now escalate. 

Dean makes a note to speak with reporters at The Star, and demand they cease their sensationalist story telling. The simple fact is that no one knows who ripped Mary Ann Nichols, and the two slayings in previous months have yet to be linked. The case of Martha Tabram from early April last has potential, for she was slain with a similar brutality, but there the likeness ends. And prior to that was the murder of Emma Elizabeth Smith, but she was declared a victim of gang violence, nothing at all to do with Mary Ann Nichols or Ms Tabram. But The Star is linking them all, claiming a Jewish murderer is at large in the Whitechapel Streets. This does not bode well for the people Dean has sworn to protect. 

Leather Apron. The nickname, the racial slurs, it all seems too crass to Dean. The more he thinks about it, the more Dean feels like this suspect will turn out to not be the killer they are looking for. He agrees with Castiel’s statement that the true butcher is more keen than some demander harassing every tart he can find, and once the man is caught, he is certain that the beast will truly be an Englishman. Whoever this Leather Apron is, he will surely never be safe on these streets again, regardless of whether the rumours against his name are true or not, and Dean suspects they are not.

Meanwhile, Castiel is arguing with the coroner over the reports on the Nichols woman. “I tell you, this man knew precisely what he was about!”

“That is supposition on your part, good sir. I shall write for the inquest that she was hacked, not meticulously taken apart. The wounds are jagged and haphazard, and were made by a man of lesser anatomical knowledge than you or I. A butcher, or knacker, at best. And I’m sorry it grieves you so, but mine is the opinion that holds weight in this matter. Do try and stop filling the investigator’s head with tales of intelligent madmen, when all we have here is an unsophisticated brute, taking out his impotence on the fairer sex.”

Castiel’s blood boils at this statement. He is sure in his knowledge, and no matter what the coroner suggests, he should like to prove this matter. The next victim that drops will surely give him the clues to confirm what he has stated, and though he should not be keen to find another woman ripped in such manner, the gore of it matters little to him. He is only too eager to prove the coroner wrong.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Victorian Lexicon:
> 
> “she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid tumble” = she was so drunk, she passed out during sex.
> 
> Tuppence = a twopenny coin. Twelve pennies per shilling, 20 shillings per pound
> 
> Take the egg = win
> 
> Half-shot = drunk  
Knacker = one who collects animal carcases and renders their parts into by-products for other industries
> 
> PC = police constable
> 
> Carman = one who drives a horse drawn cart
> 
> Tart = prostitute
> 
> Toffer = prostitute 
> 
> “prodigious engine” = penis
> 
> Posteriors = rear end
> 
> Dollymop = prostitute (part time, and not professional)
> 
> Dunny = toilet
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute
> 
> Aproner = bartender (also can be used to refer to general tradesmen)
> 
> Squiffed = drunk
> 
> Blootered = drunk
> 
> Section house = the mandated housing for the metropolitan police force (Dean would share his house with at least 6 other PCs, detectives, or investigators from H Division)
> 
> Truncheon = penis 
> 
> Madge = vagina
> 
> Bunter: Prostitute (low class beggar) 
> 
> Braces: suspenders 
> 
> Niminy-piminy: Gay man
> 
> Unnameables: underpants
> 
> "Mind the grease": Said in lieu of “excuse me” when walking through a crowd or trying to pass someone.
> 
> Carriwitchet: conundrum; puzzle
> 
> Mug: asshole; jerk
> 
> Perpendicular: when the pub is so crowded you must eat your dinner standing up.
> 
> Lobcock: flaccid dick
> 
> Nerves: panic disorder and anxiety 
> 
> Morbs: A bout temporary depression
> 
> Melancholia: A long term, severe depression


	3. September 8, 1888

** _Part 1: The Body_ **

A market porter, John Davis, leaves his lodging early to attend business at Spitalfields market. Upon exiting the house, he finds the body of a bloody woman strewn about the flight of stairs leading up to the yard. It is 6am. He calls for the tenant landlady, Mrs Richardson, who immediately fetches another lodger to collect H-Division. 

John inspects the body with a sick twist in his gut as he waits for the inspectors to arrive. She is completely ripped apart. Her entrails, which have been pulled from her belly, are tossed over each shoulder, like a mockery of an elegant lady’s shawl. Her heart and other organs have been removed and are lying in various states of mutilation about the body. John feels bile rising in his throat and immediately hurries back into the lodging house upon arrival of the police, where he promptly vomits up his breakfast of porridge. 

DI Winchester and Dr. Novak both arrive at a similar time, 6:30 and 6:31 respectively. Dean has only begun to collect his bearings, watching as the man, John, flees within doors when Castiel approaches. “Hello, Dean.”

A week has passed since Dean’s ill-conceived adventure into deviancy and neither Dean nor Cas has mentioned the giant buggerer-shaped elephant in the room. 

Whitechapel has--and by extension, Spitalfields--become notorious for its constant state of disquiet (primarily due to holding the main docks to the city), and despite this, there have been only two murders since Mary Ann Nichols: one was a single gun-shot to the brain, inflicted at close quarters--a dispute between landlord and tenant. The other a petty dispute between rival gangs, which ended with a fatal bludgeoning. Due to the clear cut nature of these crimes, Castiel has been considerably absent at the precinct, attending primarily with the district coroner, and so it is only natural that the topic would not have been breached. 

But now, as Castiel stands before him, he is decidedly self conscious of the matter and chooses to ignore it completely until a later date, or perhaps, and preferably, quite indefinitely. Castiel seems to look at him no differently, so it is an easy conjecture for Dean to consider the whole mess concluded. He nods and smiles at the man in greeting. 

“What do you see, Cas?” Dean gestures to the body, then kneels before her, careful not to place his knee in the expanse of viscera and blood pooled around the body. His trousers are quite fine, and it would be a shame to sully them. Cas joins him in his careful posture, then investigates the scene before him.

“See how her tongue protrudes and is swollen? The kerchief about her neck was used to strangle her before her throat was sliced, again from left to right, same as the Nichols woman. She was surely not completely dead from the strangulation, else the blood would not have escaped in such great quantities. 

“The blade used to slice through her neck and abdomen was very sharp and narrow, and upon initial inspection, I believe it to have been 6-8 inches in length. Also, the same as the Nichols woman.”

Cas places his hand on her forehead to test for temperature. “Based on the cooling of the body, I speculate that she has been dead for at least two hours, though I should note, and it is only right to mention, that due to the coolness of the morning and the quantity of blood lost, the body may have been disposed to cool more rapidly. Death occurred between 3 and 5:30 this morning.”

The police photographer has shown up with his equipment at this time, so Dean and Cas step back and allow him to capture the scene while Cas arranges for the body to be taken to the exam room via ambulance. 

There is a lesser crowd gathering than last Friday week, but still plenty of gawpers loiter, whispering about the Leather Apron headlines, and the extreme cruelty visited upon this woman’s person by someone surely of Jewish parentage.

Dean shoos away the ignorant citizens, assuring with some degree of unchecked frustration that they are entirely wrong, that they seek out an Englishman for this brutality. “And who do you think you are to know better than the police? Please keep your pettiness out of my investigation!” Dean practically shoves the crowd with force until they disperse with more whispers--this time of police ineptitude. 

“Dean! Have you lost the plot? Your anger will not help solve this unfortunate case with any haste, but may prove to hinder us further at the hands of the press. What headlines we shall see tomorrow!” Castiel is justifiably upset at Dean’s behavior, and grabs him by the arm to stand within the entryway to the house past the yard. 

“They have it all wrong, and I should be thrashed by my own guilty mind should I allow the vigilante justice against a people who have nothing to do with this savagery. This could well lead to riots at the dockside or worse!” 

Dean is pacing, three steps to the yard, then three steps back to Cas at the entry. He repeats this motion several times before Cas grabs him by the arm and hauls him through the door, pushing him to the corridor wall. “Dean! Settle yourself.”

Dean is trying his damndest to blink back tears of frustration; at the butcher, at the press, at the ever growing state of decay of the east end, and it’s rapidly increasing dissent. He looks to Castiel, who has a combination of concern and his own hint of frustration written plainly on his face, and thinks only to distract himself of the anxiety bubbling deep within his chest. 

Then Dean is the one pushing Castiel against the wall and closing in to press his mouth firmly to the other man’s. He can feel him go rigid in his hands, but Cas makes no move to push him away this time. They kiss quietly for several moments, the silence ringing through the corridor like bells, neither man willing to make a sound lest they be discovered. In truth, Dean is barely breathing as he pulls back and begins to part his lips to speak in an almost inaudible whisper. “Come home with me tonight.” 

Castiel nods, then shakes his head as a thought comes to him. “No. You live at the section house! It is filled with men who would be held to their duty to report us if we should be found out!”

“I don’t care. Let them know! I am sick to death of the people and their judgements!” 

Cas remains silent, his eyes large and confused. Then his brow lifts for a moment as he ponders their situation. “Or you could come to mine.” 

** _Part 2: The interviews_ **

Cas decides to come along with Dean to help with interviews. The coroner will refute whatever report he claims, so he will simply tell Dean the truth of things and let the other reports suffer for it. Official inquest be damned and damned be the entire lot of incompetent oafs. Dean’s is truly the only opinion that matters to him at this time. 

They first head to the neighboring tenements to be certain no resident has seen the face of the man who committed the heinous act (and indeed none have claimed to know him) before heading to Ten Bells where most of the east end harlots patroned (and sought patrons alike) at some point or another during their evening endeavours. 

Castiel is immediately flustered upon entering the building, but politely turns down the offer of a drink of gin from the aproner, though it would surely soothe his ragged nerves. Dean seems far more collected than he, and a good thing it is that Dean carries the title of inspector, not Cas. 

Dean pulls out an unspoilt portion of the latest victim's neckerchief and begins asking the patrons if any recognize the textile. After several men claim to have never seen it, a young tart pipes up with a lilting Welsh accent that shines through her affected Londoner tone. “Ay, I know it. Belong to miss Annie, it does. Was boastin’ she’d make 5 shillings a night extra wif it. We all admired the passementerie but, for my part, I don’t fink it was worf 5 shillin’s extra.”

“Does miss Annie have a last name?”

“Yeh, it be Chapman, sir.” 

Dean leans forward and smiles coquettishly, leaving promises to attend to her most thoroughly at another time. Just as the young Welshwoman is to begin her sales pitch, loud cackling breaks out from the back of the pub. An older doxy has cornered a very unhappy looking Castiel, her pudgy finger sliding up and down his chest. Castiel barely holds his disgust in check and it looks like he could soon do violence if the woman does not back down. “Keep your hands to yourself, foul bunter.” The man is practically snarling. Dean is surprised at this, for Castiel is normally so cool and collected, even in the presence of the most disturbing gore. 

She has thrown her head back as she laughs, browning teeth and white tongue flapping about in a putrid display of her disregard. She turns her face to look at the Welsh girl. “Don’ like ta be touched, this‘un.” She looks back to Castiel, quivering in his upset. “Wha’ ya some kinda gal-boy? Ha! Niminy-piminy, ‘e.”

Dean walks over and gently places his hand on the woman’s shoulder and pulls her away from Cas. “That will do, miss.” She guffaws out a last laugh as she walks away from the men and back over to the bar to join her polite companion in a drink of gin. “Fruity, that’un! Nice arse tho, if I e’er seen ’un.”

Dean shakes his head at the woman, then looks to Cas. “We can call this interview concluded for the time. I have a name to place with the body: Annie Chapman. Please, accompany me back to Leman where we can collect our bearings and decide what to do next.” 

Castiel agrees and so they walk. It is ten minutes of silence between the pub and the station, but Dean decides not to break lest Castiel say words that others should not hear. It is barely midday and the streets are overcrowded as usual. 

Upon entering the H-Division headquarters building, young PC Fitgerald is waiting with a stack of reports. “More statements regarding Leather Apron, sir.” He hands a file full of statements to Dean, then turns to Castiel. “There was a man about just an hour past looking for you. You are invited to attend autopsy at Bedlam this afternoon, 2.” 

Dean thanks Fitzgerald and asks him to send for O’Connor of The Star newspaper, then leads Cas to his office, closing and locking the door once they are firmly within. 

“It seems we are both being the rude part of ourselves this day. What overcame you at the public house, Cas?” Dean smooths his hand over Castiel's frock coat as he speaks. “I’ve never seen you to lose your temper.”

Castiel sighs and avoids answering the question directly, but gives an answer that tells of his insecurities, “I wonder, what’s to happen after… events this evening? Will I be given tuppence and bid farewell?”

Dean’s hand stops it’s motion suddenly, a dark look coming over his face. “Cas, you are no doxy.”

“Am I not? Is that not who you take to your bed?”

Dean lets out an agitated puff of breath as he looks down to the floor in shame. “It… satisfies, I suppose. The need for closeness without fear of being caught out. But you must know by now, women are not who I truly love.”

Castiel looks at him for a time, head cocked to the side and says nothing. It is the last thing Dean expects when Castiel moves toward him, fast as a mongoose attacking a snake, and flips him back onto his desk by his thighs. The surprise takes Dean’s breath just as much as the impact to the hard wooden surface, and Cas is not giving him a single moment to catch his wits. Before he can inhale a single breath, Castiel’s mouth is upon his, firmly wedging himself between Dean’s legs and working to rid Dean of his braces. 

Cas nearly rips the inseam of Deans trousers in his haste to pull them down his hips, and Dean can think of nothing but to continue the fevered kiss and to see where this all goes. 

Cas is certainly not being a gentleman, but Dean can say in all truth that he has never been more up in his life than at this specific moment. Whatever has overcome Castiel, Dean is of firm resolve that he should like to see it happen again, and at as frequent intervals as possible.

Just as Cas starts reaching down to wrap his gloriously nimble fingers around Dean’s cock and giving a gentle tug, a loud rapping sounds from the door. Both men completely still, each holding his own breath, afraid to make a wrong noise and be discovered in their deviancy. 

“Yes?” Dean’s voice is a pitch higher than normal, and so clamps an embarrassed hand over his mouth as the ghastly sound escapes. He will need to gain control of his faculties, and in a hurry. 

PC Fitzgerald pipes up from the other side of the door in a clear, strong voice, his Dorset countryside lilt accentuating the words, “The man O’Connor was got. He can be here for 4 to interview, sir.” 

“Very good, constable!” Dean’s voice has dropped back to its normal octave for his response, which pleases him greatly. He crosses his eyes dramatically and drops his head back onto the desk with a thud. He then realizes that Castiel has yet to move, and still has fingers firmly wrapped about his now flagging cock, and Dean can do nothing but laugh. Castiel starts a slow smile, then joins him in his laughter as he moves back and off the man, helping him to his feet with outstretched hands. 

Dean quickly rights his clothing and slides his fingers through his hair, taming the mess he suspects Cas has made of it. “Do I look presentable?”

“Always, sir.” Cas looks coyly up at Dean through his lashes, and Dean can barely restrain himself from continuing their romp then and there. Instead, Dean kisses him again, almost chastly, then confirms for the evening plans as he moves for the door, “Half ten?”

“Half ten.”

Castiel brushes past him as he leaves. It is nearing time when he is expected at Bedlam, so it is best they were interrupted, as frustrating as it all is. He nods to the young PC on his way out to the street and greets him farewell. “Fitzedmond.”

“It’s Fitzgerald… sir.”

Castiel ignores being corrected and goes on his way.

Dean smirks, then goes to his desk and takes out the file of new witness statements and gets back to reading while he waits for O’Connor to arrive.

** _Part 3: Meetings_ **

Castiel arrives at Bethlem Royal Hospital minutes before 2, per Samuel’s invitation. He is ushered by an orderly to the post mortem examination room and is left to knock for himself. Sam opens the door and smiles widely upon seeing Cas, exactly as prompt as he suspected he would be. “Come! I was just preparing the cadavers.” He waves Castiel in, then grasps his hand in a firm shake. They make small talk for a while, then move over to cover their clothes in the leather aprons Sam has provided.

“How goes the week? Anything exciting since the public house?” 

Castiel shrugs noncommittally. “You know how it is. When you know the way of things far better than another, yet your hard work is swept under the rug. The coroner redacts my examinations from the records and uses his own hack work for any official inquests. To be sure, it has been a trying week.” 

“It’s been some time since I’ve answered to another. Perhaps you should open your own practice?”

“I will take over for the coroner when the coroner is dead. I don’t think I would like to deal with living patients. They fuss a great deal and behave as if they know better than the medical expert attending them. I have considered devoting my time to research, such as yourself.”

“Research is preferable, I agree. What would you study?”

“I think that there is a lot more we can determine by blood than whether it is of a mammal or no, and I should quite like to sit and study the stuff to determine what it might tell us. Just think of all the things we might see were we to employ the proper lens, or introduce a contrasting fluid. I posit that not all blood is the same, even between humans. Have you noted, that one who receives a transfusion may live and thrive for years, but another becomes sickly and perishes from the same blood? Why would one do so well and the other be adverse? ” 

Sam ponders this. “Perhaps the adverse reaction comes from a sickness of the blood. A simple infusion would not be enough, like it is for the healthy individual. I have seen some who require daily infusions, and become sick without it. We joke that they have contracted vampirism, but perhaps there is something to that line of thought after all.”

Castiel laughs. “Yes, and then I can publish my results to a penny dreadful!”

Sam is fascinated, as he knew he would be, by Castiel’s insights. His expression is far more open than it was last Friday week and he now has the appearance of someone not trying to hold back. Curious. Perhaps he should bring up Dean and see how that change of topic affects the man before him. 

“How has Dean been with the police work?” Sam undrapes the corpses of their linen sheets and carefully watches Castiel from across the exam table. His brows furrow slightly as Sam unveils the fresh bodies, then his expression closes off. Curious.

“I think these murders are getting to him. The press is promoting the uprising in anti-semitic mentality in the city. And while I do not agree with this -- in fact, find it abhorrent -- Dean has taken it quite to heart and is currently hounding the papers to act as a balm rather that incite the riots he fears.” Though his expression is blank, Sam can see a devoted affection just behind the surface of Castiel’s eyes as he speaks of Dean. Sam withholds the sigh that would like to escape as he grabs for his instruments. The poor fool is clearly in love with his brother, even though he tries to hide it. 

“He has always been a champion of the people. I hope he can make them see sense. Now, Cas. You said murders. Has there been another?” Castiel’s face becomes more animated again with the change of topic, an almost eerie enthusiasm at the mention of murder.

“Oh yes, there was another this morning. I suppose you hadn’t heard yet. I brought the file if you would like to look when we are finished here. I know Dean would value your opinion.” Cas takes a moment to watch as Sam carefully cuts into the skull of the first cadaver, mindfully pulling back the skin, then cutting through the bone with a wire saw. “This woman was ripped apart, just like the Nichols case. Same type of knife, same left handed wound patterns. I believe it to be the same person as who struck before.”

“I would certainly like to look at the file later!” Sam smiles at him, then gently removes the top of the skull from the body, carefully extracting the brain to set in a basin to the side. He can immediately notice a difference in this brain.

“Cas, take a look at this. This patient suffered from general paresis of the insane, a fatal symptom of late stage syphilis. We have been able to distinguish this malady from other forms of dementia due to the light-near dissociation of the pupils to those having contracted syphilis.” Castiel nods his head. Being a surgeon, he would likely have read the latest discoveries of the disease in the medical journals and this would be redundant information to him. Sam slides the basin over to Cas, who, at Sam’s gesture, gently picks the brain up and studies it closely. 

“It’s so much softer than it should be! And look at these pock marks and lesions, primarily in the frontal cortex and temporal lobe. This would directly affect memory, and likely cause either deafness or perhaps auditory hallucinations. Fascinating!”

Sam notes the sparkle in Cas’ eyes. And while this could simply be aligned with his own fascination into the minds of the mad, Sam suspects it to be of a darker nature than scientific discovery. His own motives tend toward that of the overzealous, and perhaps lead to the unethical treatment of still-living patients, but he has had ample time to ponder his own mind. Castiel is an entirely new beast, full of sapient insights cleverly disguising a hidden obliquity. 

They wrap up the examination and Sam takes a look into the file of Annie Chapman. The photograph of the crime scene has not yet been developed, but the police have acquired a portrait of the woman while she was still living. Sam immediately recognizes her as the woman Dean had coupled with outside of the Ten Bells. He decides to play devil's advocate to see what Cas’ reaction might be.

“Is it me, or is this not the same tart Dean had a tumble with during our excursion to Ten Bells?”

Castiel’s face is a stoic mask. He blinks twice at the photograph before responding. “Why, I believe she is one and the same. Good eye, Sam.” It is apparent to Sam that Cas already recognized her. Why then would that information not be in the report? He expresses this out loud.

“Don’t put on the front of a confused man. We both know you are too clever not to have known her. Why then, is it not written that Dean has been her employer nights past? And, incidentally, did you not know that Mary Ann Nichols was, too, a frequent visitor within his unnameables?”

Cas visibly swallows before looking into Sam’s eyes. He can see an eerie coldness forming there, can see the gears working as Cas contemplates his next action. And when Cas refrains from answering forthwith, Sam presses on.

“I know what you feel for my brother. There is no need to deny that to me. But he has been entirely impulsive his entire life, and a hard life it has been, and I would not put it past him to enact some sick inner fantasies upon these women.” Sam doesn’t suspect his brother of this for a moment, but cannot seem to stop pressing Cas’ buttons. It is his own sickness of mind.

Cas is shaking his head now, his eyes grown minutely rounder. Sam continues, “Why is he not suspect? Do you know something about this? I should think you know precisely what is happening here with the reports fabricated so. Do not let your misguided infatuation with him cloud your mind!”

Sam, in an ordinary world, would certainly like Castiel; his cleverness and desire for knowledge matching Sam’s own. They could even be friends. But he is grown too deep within the bowels of his own fascinations, and can only search out for unseemly, or unusual reactions in the man before him.

“Please stop, Sam.” Castiel draws a deep breath, then pauses a moment as he shakes his head. “The PC Fitzedmond and I discussed, and came to the conclusion that Dean should not have unwarranted attention visited upon him. He is a kind and good man, you surely know this of him!” Despite the breath, Castiel’s voice rises in decibel with each word he speaks, until the last is nearly shouted. “How can you cast such suspicions upon your own brother? He is no butcher!” 

Castiel’s eyes have grown wild and angry, no longer keeping his face under such tight control. Sam can see the glint of lunacy creeping out to the surface, and makes a decision to detect further what Cas is about. 

The man deposits his apron on the designated peg, then collects the file from Sam’s fingers before storming out of the room. He looks back once to say a last word to Sam. “I shall certainly have words with Dean about this unfounded  _ assery _ of yours!” He slams the door behind him as he leaves, and Sam can picture him charging down the halls of Bethlem like a bull chasing red; God help any orderlies who stand in the way of his retreat.

Sam feels no guilt for riling the man up so, though he surely should. Sam Shakes his head. They really could be friends. Nonetheless, it was a job successfully done. Sam pushed the correct buttons to achieve a response. He sits and ponders the potential for Castiel’s unbridled madness and wonders when it will all bubble to the surface and explode forth into the world. Sam should decidedly enjoy his time with Castiel when that time comes and he is a patient under Sam’s care. There are experiments he would like to conduct that involve trepanning certain areas of the skull and applying stimulus directly to the meat of the brain. He would find Cas’ center of lunacy, and with the man’s help, willing or not, would make significant strides in the study of abnormality. What a rare specimen he is.

Thomas Power O’Connor is a reasonable man. He is a philanthropist at heart, and so Dean appeals to this nature during their discourse. And though he is an Irish Nationalist, he rarely gives way to the violent means other members of the movement tend to employ to guarantee their sovereignty of their home island. Above all, he is a man of the people, working to right many a social injustice to the less fortunate residents of London. The genteel stay far from the East End, and so know very little of the plight of the slums. O’Connor has been working vigilantly to bring the social injustices to the light of day.

He is notably taken aback at the accusation that he has been less than fair in allowing slanderous remarks of the Jewish people to enter his newspaper. He claims it was never his intention to incite East Enders against the whole populace, but that he likes not to dictate what his journalists write, and so it is ultimately up to them the overall mood of the stories. He listens carefully to Dean’s pleas, however, and is sympathetic with his fears that the rising popularity of anti-Semitism could lead to full fledged riots in the slums. He is especially pleased when Dean quotes his own editorial of the first published Star, his very own mission statement and what the newspaper ultimately stands for:

"The rich, the privileged, the prosperous need no guardian or advocate; the poor, the weak, the beaten require the work and word of every humane man and woman to stand between them and the world." _ _

O’Connor has agreed that, yes, that statement encompasses all of the unfortunate inhabitants of the slums and that, in future publications, he will personally see to it that the term ‘foreign’ is used in regards to immigrated Londoners, and to keep specific ethnicities out of the columns. 

Dean has a headache by the time O’Connor leaves, even though he should consider this a win. He is dreading the next meeting with the next newspaper; not all of them are so sympathetic and liberal as The Star. 

His dread turns out to be warranted. The next three representatives Dean makes his plea to accuse him of police oppression, ineptitude, and leave his office swearing to write whatever damned well pleases them. Dean makes a list of people to hold responsible should the riots he fears truly be incited. There is limited space in the cells, but he will be certain there is plenty for these righteous pricks when the time comes. 

Dean shows up to Castiel’s house at half ten prompt. It is a pleasant walk over to Limehouse, through the steadily growing China Town of Gill Street. And though Limehouse is part of the east end Tower Hamlets, it lacks the overwhelming seediness of Whitechapel and Spitalfields. Dean stops to purchase treats from the Old Friends Restaurant on his way, hoping Castiel has a sweet tooth for rice cake this evening. 

When Cas opens the door to his modest row house, he gently smiles at Dean and takes his coat to hang on a beautifully carved wooden foyer bench with brass pegs. He is then led into the salon where the two men share the desserts and converse over coffee with a spoonful of powdered coca. 

This is the first time Dean has been within Castiel’s home. While he is certainly not affluent in the way the west siders are, he has made a comfortable and elegant home for himself. Dean knows the man makes a third again more than he himself, so it’s not surprising he can afford living on the border of luxury. Castiel’s home is significantly smaller than the section house, but he does not have to share with half-dozen other men the way Dean does, and it makes him envious of the quietude instilled in the place.

Dean has been eyeing Cas’ home and not looking at the man before him directly, even though he makes appropriate responses to Castiel’s words, and tells him all about the interviews with various newspapers. He realizes he is nervous. He has been to the molly houses and found a nice gentleman to entertain for the evening on the rare occasions when he was feeling bold, but this was different. Cas was someone who he would be seeing again in the morning, and the day after, and so on. And Dean would be glad for it. But perhaps he should tread carefully with this, lest the whole affair crumble before it begins. He isn’t really sure how Cas feels about doing this, if he is truly willing to take the risks involved in a coupling of this nature. 

“Dean?” Cas has moved closer to him and is looking at him with mild confusion and concern, his brows lightly knit together. 

“I seem to have found myself lost. What shall we do now?”

Castiel holds out a hand to Dean as if he would like to lead him to a different room. He sets his cup down and notes that his hands are shaking. Perhaps he had more of a dollop of the coca than was purely necessary. He takes Cas’ hand and stands up, nose to nose with the man. Butterflies threaten to rip through his abdomen, as sure and deadly as the ripper’s knife. But Cas holds him steady as he is led up the stairs and into Cas’ bedroom.

He is quite suddenly thrown back onto the bed where he bounces twice before his body settles, and his voice assuredly does not make a high pitched and startled squeak. Castiel’s eiderdown is of the softest stuff Dean has ever felt, and he comfortably rests back on his elbows, watching with his wide green eyes as Cas expediently removes his outer layer of clothes. Once he is down to only his calico drawers, he lifts an eyebrow at Dean who has remained seated firmly on his posteriors, happily watching the show and marveling at how much definition Cas was hiding beneath all those layers. “Well?”

Dean quirks his mouth into a coy smile and bites his lip in what he hopes to be an appealing manner. “Why Cas, you’re so good at undressing, I thought you might do the same for me?”

Cas laughs as he rids Dean of his boots, tossing them carelessly to the side. As he slides Dean’s braces off his shoulders a mischievous glint lights up in his blue eyes. Rather than letting them hang limp, he detaches them from the waistband of Dean’s trousers and sets them aside momentarily before returning to his task of disrobing Dean. 

Dean looks at him with curiosity in his eyes, and suspects he knows what the man is planning, so bites his lip and smiles as he is rid of his outer clothes, enjoying the bold creature that has become Castiel. Once he is removed of everything but his linens, Castiel straddles Deans waist, then grabs his braces and holds them taut between his hands, looking down with a raised eyebrow and a devilish smirk.

Dean holds out his wrists for Castiel to bind, then is thoroughly pleased when the man lifts his bound hands and secures them to the bedpost. “Why Cas, had I known you would be like this, I would have invested in some fine Chinese silk ropes. Shall I come more prepared for next time?”

Cas leans down and kisses him, enthusiastic at thoughts of a “next time” and shows his gratitude with bold strokes of his tongue. “Oh yes, that would be most satisfactory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Victorian Lexicon:
> 
> “she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid tumble” = she was so drunk, she passed out during sex.
> 
> Tuppence = a twopenny coin. Twelve pennies per shilling, 20 shillings per pound
> 
> Take the egg = win
> 
> Half-shot = drunk  
Knacker = one who collects animal carcases and renders their parts into by-products for other industries
> 
> PC = police constable
> 
> Carman = one who drives a horse drawn cart
> 
> Tart = prostitute
> 
> Toffer = prostitute 
> 
> “prodigious engine” = penis
> 
> Posteriors = rear end
> 
> Dollymop = prostitute (part time, and not professional)
> 
> Dunny = toilet
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute
> 
> Aproner = bartender (also can be used to refer to general tradesmen)
> 
> Squiffed = drunk
> 
> Blootered = drunk
> 
> Section house = the mandated housing for the metropolitan police force (Dean would share his house with at least 6 other PCs, detectives, or investigators from H Division)
> 
> Truncheon = penis 
> 
> Madge = vagina
> 
> Bunter: Prostitute (low class beggar) 
> 
> Braces: suspenders 
> 
> Niminy-piminy: Gay man
> 
> Unnameables: underpants
> 
> "Mind the grease": Said in lieu of “excuse me” when walking through a crowd or trying to pass someone.
> 
> Carriwitchet: conundrum; puzzle
> 
> Mug: asshole; jerk
> 
> Perpendicular: when the pub is so crowded you must eat your dinner standing up.
> 
> Lobcock: flaccid dick
> 
> Nerves: panic disorder and anxiety 
> 
> Morbs: A bout temporary depression
> 
> Melancholia: A long term, severe depression


	4. September 9-29, 1888

Dean wakes in the early hours of the morning and rolls over to see Castiel still sound asleep beside him. It is a sight he would like to get used to. The man is all together the image of serenity, angelic in the morning light. 

Dean sighs to himself. Living at the section house is mandatory for all unwed PCs and investigators, so waking up like this is not something he will be growing accustomed to in the near future. Dean thinks again about quitting the city and stealing Cas away to the countryside. They could have solitude, something Dean has desperately wanted for as long as he can recall. They could openly love, fuck with abandon, then fall asleep side by side every night and have none to call them out on their peculiarity. 

Last night was enlightening. Dean knew he would enjoy himself with Cas, as he had enjoyed the gentlemen from the molly house. But Dean had never been taken in such a manner and surprised himself at how little effeminacy he felt at allowing another man to enter him, and was surprised even further at how much he reveled in the complete lack of control and submission requested of him. Were it any other, Dean surely would never have allowed it. But he has come to the realization that he would allow most anything to Cas.

Castiel stirs and cracks open an eye, noting the way Dean studies his face, and smiles with a lazy twitch of his mouth. He reaches over and pulls Dean to him, graceful in his movements despite the early hour, and rolls himself over and between Dean’s legs. 

Before the man even greets him ‘good day', he is pushing his morning erection back inside of Dean with the aid of a little jar of carrageenan (which he had the foresight to procure from the Chinese market before Dean’s arrival). Dean does not mind one bit.

Despite the enjoyment of the coupling, Dean does not find his release. He simply allows Cas to take what he needs from him. He is perfervid in his motions and leaves Dean entirely satisfied without the need to spill his seed. He is well and truly fucked.

They lie panting afterwards, staring at each other in awe. What a remarkable gift to be able to sneak this private moment amongst the chaos and violence of the rapidly growing slums. This is their moment of solitude and both men are loathe to end it precipitously. 

Eventually they do have to get up. Castiel prepares them breakfast of rashers and beans with tea and cocaine while Dean rids himself of collected fluids from the morning and night past in a little copper wash basin. 

As Castiel puts a plate of food in front of Dean he mentions his visit with Sam the day prior, a topic which had yet to come up. “Has Sam seemed agitated to you of late?”

Dean shrugs and takes a mouthful of beans. “Not that I’ve taken note of. Why do you ask?”

Castiel chooses his words carefully, not wanting to accuse Sam of anything should his mental state be an unfounded suspicion on his part. “I only ask because he looks at me strangely. Like he wants to poke at my brain with one of his tools and see what my responses shall be.”

Dean laughs at this. “Sam will never stop analyzing. He has frequently been noted to look at others with curiosity. I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned with.” He pauses to take another bite, then continues. “Although, I must say. Agitated is a strange word to use. Surely you ask for reasons other than a queer glance from him.”

“He said some things to me.” Castiel takes a large swallow of his drink, relishing the soothe it gives to his weary mind, and the alertness it provides. “He is too perceptive for his own good, if you ask me. He has taken note of the way I look at you, and has warned me away from attempts at your affections. And he has done so in a peculiar manner…” Castiel pauses not certain he should tell Sam’s preposterous suspicions.

“What is it, Cas?” Dean is looking at him straight in the eye now with utmost interest and curiosity. 

“Well,” Cas huffs out an indignant laugh, “he said I should be looking at you for the Ripper.”

Dean’s brows wrinkle together in incredulity. “Certainly he jests! And what an abhorrent suggestion, that I should be capable of such a thing as this butchery.” 

Cas does, in fact, see the potential within Dean to do such cruelties, can picture him on top of those women, slicing away at their flesh, but chooses to keep this to himself. Dean does not outwardly appear the type to commit savagery such as the Ripper has, but Cas knows the darkness hiding within Dean, lurking just out of sight. Dean may not even be aware of his true potential for evil, but it is certainly there.

“I said a similar thing to him before I left. I surely think he doesn’t truly believe it. I suspect he was looking for my reaction, to see if he could rile me up in such a way that his want to experiment on me should be warranted. And so we come back to ‘because he looks at me strangely.’”

Dean is visibly upset, shaking his head in denial that Sam would be so cruel. He takes his nearly full drink and downs it in one swallow, the effects immediately lessening his anxiety. “I will certainly have words with him forthwith.”

The following day Dean has not yet found time to make a social call to Bedlam to exchange words with Sam in regards to his mistreatment of Cas. And when a constable telegraphs, claiming to personally know Leather Apron, it looks as if it will yet be another day or two. 

Dean immediately follows up on the report and finds himself at the Spitalfields holding cells. Constable Thicke tells Dean of the man John Pizer, a bootmaker whom he has known for years. He has been in custody on a prior stabbing offence and is blamed for multiple harassments of the local doxies. He is also a Polish Jew, which, in Dean’s opinion, had likely been the deciding factor on PC Thicke’s arrest. 

Dean dismisses the constable and sits in a wooden chair on the other side of Mr Pizer’s cell. The man looks weary and haggard, and altogether mistrusting in Dean’s status of police. “PC Thicke tells me that you have been in hiding for several days?”

“Yessir. They been sayin’ things about me that ain’t true. I was afraid for my life to go out of doors since the papers started tellin’ I was a killer. But I ain’t, I swear it.”

Dean can see the sincerity in the man’s eyes and believes him to be stating the truth. Despite what his gut tells him, it is still his duty to find the facts. He doesn’t see the harm in reassuring the man, however. “I believe you, but I will need something to go on. Can you tell me where you where before you went into hiding?”

“Was with my family the past week.” He writes down an address for Dean when he takes out his leather journal and hands it to Mr Pizer, open to a blank page.

“And before last week? Do you recall where you were on the final day of August? It would have been Friday week, past.” Dean watches as the man counts back on his fingers and stares hard at each digit as if they hold the answers his memory searches for. 

A knowing light suddenly beams in his brown eyes. “Yeah, sir! That was the night of the dockside fire. I was attending with the other lookers. Even had a chat with the constable working that street. You go an’ ask ‘im. He’ll tell you I’m not your man!”

Dean smiles at Mr Pizer, then assures him, “Should this information check out, I shall see to it personally that you are set free with recompense.”

It takes Dean less than two days to clear John Pizer of all charges, and arranges for a financial reimbursement for damages that the defamation in the papers and unwarranted arrest has caused him. And though he is happy that he was able to procure those funds, as meagre as they are, Dean is still unhappy that the man has had to go through such hardship.

By the end of the week Dean is in a full fit of nerves. His head has not stopped pounding since his meeting with Pizer, and the increase in gang violence he has had to subdue has only made it worse. 

It has now been ten days since the murder of Annie Chapman, and they are no closer to finding out the killer. The press has continued on in their sensationalist reports, pointing fingers at others now that Pizer has been cleared of the Leather Apron charges. There has been an Irishman, an Aussie, and even a woman who have all now been pointed at for the title of Leather Apron, the Ripper at Large. Dean has the dark thought that at least the blame is being well-distributed now. Let the angry mobs turn on themselves and burn all of London down for it. 

He has yet to find himself at Bedlam, Sam firmly pushed out of the forefront during the working week. And though Dean had meant to attend to the issue of Sam and his vulgar words this night, that is not where his wandering feet have led him.

Dean finds himself at Castiel’s door, not certain that he should be welcome, uncalled for as he is, but knocks the knocker just the same. His guts are somersaulting and he can feel the nerves taking hold of his vision. Things have become cloudy, like all the fog of London condensing into a shape to engulf Dean, ever following him with each footstep. And within this cloud, the shadows move not the way they should. He pinches his eyes shut.

Something soft alights upon his shoulder, startling Dean into the awakeness of the present. Castiel is looking at him with concern in his eyes. He must look a fright, showing up without coat or hat, and covered in perspiration brought on by the nerves, despite the chill in the air. 

“Do you know the sensation in your gut, the one that happens when a foot stumbles and you nearly fall? Fall or not, the sensation is fleeting, or rather should be.” Dean shakes his head. “I’m trapped in the physical sensation of falling, and I cannot catch my breath like this.” 

Castiel leads him to the parlour and deposits him on the settee, guiding him to rest his head between his knees. “Deep breaths, Dean.” He rubs slow circles on the back of Dean’s neck for a moment while the man tries to slow his breathing, then stands to retrieve medicine. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Dean says nothing, only continues to suck in ragged breaths.

Cas gathers the needed supplies from his medical bag, then prepares a small dose of heroin. It has proven effective with other patients to soothe bouts of the nerves, far more so than cocaine or morphine, and should provide adequate relief for Dean’s current condition. 

When he returns to the parlor, Dean has not moved. His hands clutch his knees tight, turning his knuckles white with the strain. Cas lightly grasps him by the shoulders to urge him to lie back, then lifts Dean’s legs behind the knees to swing him fully onto the settee. He then rolls the sleeve up on Dean’s linen shirt and prepares him for the dose. “This will calm your nerves, but you’ll feel a pinch first.”

Dean rolls his head to the side to look Castiel in the eyes. “Not my first episode, Cas.” His eyes wander down to the vein popping from his arm, then says, “Go on, then,” and turns his face back to the ceiling, closing his eyes. 

Cas gently inserts the needle into Dean’s arm, then administers the dose. Dean takes a small gasping breath as the medicine enters his bloodstream, then immediately relaxes, his worry sliding from his face, leaving only a peaceful expression behind. 

Dean looks back over to Castiel as he is cleaning the injection site. “You know, I succumb to fits of the nerves sometimes under periods of great stress. I am surely unfit to work for the police, though I’ve managed to maintain this malady in secret.” Dean sighs, then places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, who is still crouched beside him. “I’m not sure what I would have done were you not here. I was in such a sorry state, I’m not sure that I’d have made it to Balthy’s.”

“The opium parlor? I’ve not been there, but I would like to accompany you at some point. For I, too, can use a soothe for the nerves from time to time.” Castiel shares a smile with the man, then stands to put away his equipment. 

When he returns, Dean is lost in thought and Cas feels a deep want to know his burdens. “What troubles your mind, Dean? Why were you in such a fit to have left without your coat and hat?”

Dean sits and gestures for Castiel to join him on the settee. He is so much more calm and collected than before, and as Cas sits beside him, he can see the clarity in Dean’s eyes, despite the half-lidded effect of the medicine. 

Dean stares out at the middle distance as he speaks, allowing Cas to study his profile in great detail. He is particularly drawn to the map of freckles covering the man’s face, something not easily noticed from afar. But this close, it is like looking at the spray of Milky Way stars when all is surrounded in pitch black. 

“I have too many things to keep hidden, and it becomes a burden. All I wish to do is live in happiness, but the people of this city would scorn me, or lock me away, should all become known.” Dean turns his head to lock eyes with Cas. “Would you come with if I were to be done with this place?”

“Where would we go, I wonder?” Castiel bumps his shoulder to Dean’s and smiles. He would happily leave his career and the chaos of the city to follow Dean. 

“We shall become sheep-herders in Wales. Make our own jumpers and sell butter to the neighboring townships. I hear it is all the fashion these days.” 

Castiel laughs at this. He pictures Dean in an oversized wool jumper, attempting to churn butter and making a disaster of the whole affair. “I should have to clean butter from your hair every night before bed.”

Dean’s eyes are sparkling. “You truly would leave with me?” He leans over and kisses Cas before speaking again. “Soon. I should like to leave soon. The people of this city will be the death of me if I do not quit the place with haste.” A coy look crosses Dean’s face. “Wouldn’t it be grand to burn the place down? Leave a wake of destruction behind, as is only deserving to the curs. I think sometimes I could murder them all.”

Cas has to shift suddenly. He is picturing Dean spattered in the blood of those who offend, a righteous man ridding London of the undeserving, and it seems these thoughts have brought his lower portions straight to attention. 

Castiel clears his throat. “It does occur to me that there are those who are surely more deserving than others.” He imagines offing all of those who have stood in the way of he and Dean coming together in this way, the bunters of the slums, and even good Sam. He knows they are not who Dean speaks of killing, but it is his own silent contribution to the destruction. 

Dean shakes his head. “I should like to think I wouldn’t act upon it, but it always tempts me so.”

“You are drawn to violence, Dean, though it burdens your mind. Wouldn’t it be something to behold should you learn to embrace it without the accompanying nerves?” Castiel slides off the settee and plants himself on his knees, directly between Dean’s legs. “Let me help you.”

Dean looks down at Cas with wide eyes and nods his head. “How? How will you help me?”

Cas grins like a cat, then springs up and hauls Dean off the settee, leading him up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Dean is ordered to disrobe while Cas goes to fetch a few items he picked up the other day. When he returns, Dean is standing nude, leaning against the armoire with his arms crossed about his chest. 

“What do you have planned, Cas?” Dean warily eyes the rope, stiletto, and carrageenan that Cas carelessly tosses onto the bed. “You’re not going to stick that inside me.” Dean nods his head at the long, thin bladed knife.

Cas laughs at the thought. He wouldn’t ever think to ruin Dean in such a way. No, this is an exercise in trust. “Of course not. This is to unleash some violence in a controlled setting. Let the darkness out where it’s safe to do so.” Cas holds his hand out for Dean, and the man slowly approaches to take the offer. “Do you trust me, Dean?”

He still looks skeptical, but Dean nods. “Yes. Always.” 

The following morning Dean walks back to Lehman Street, his steps slightly uneven, but not due to drunkeness. He had surprised himself the evening past, allowing Castiel to do all manner of unseemly things to his body, and relished every moment. He shakes his head in awe and lets out a small laugh recalling how he had asked the man to strike him across the face mid-coitus, and all of the myriad cuts made by the stiletto to both Castiel and himself. His arms had been tied behind him, and lying on his back had proven uncomfortable and left him with no control. Yet he seemed to hold all the control, as Castiel had obeyed every demand he made. By the end of it, they were covered in slick gore, feasting on each other’s blood like some loathed creatures out of a penny dreadful. 

He can still taste the metallic tinge of Cas’ blood on his tongue. And despite how powerful it made him feel, even though bound, his stomach roils. Humans were not meant for consumption of that kind, and Dean has to step into an alley to rid his stomach of the contents. It is disconcerting to vomit blood, even aware as he is that it is due to no malady other than his sexual deviancy, and wonders if Cas had consumed so much that he, too, would need to find a dark corner to relieve himself. 

Dean wipes his red lips with the back of his hand and gives an apologetic look to the man who rounds the corner and looks at him in disgust. He likely looks like a diseased cur that ought to be put down, but he cannot keep the smile from his face. It will take a few days to heal, but Dean knows he will be back to Castiel’s for a repeat performance. He continues to limp on.

When Dean enters Lehman Street, there has been another arrest: a poor cabinet maker by the name of Thomas Mills. He was arrested on charges of drunkenness, but the arresting bobby had had to fend off a chanting mob in order to apprehend the rascal. They all pointed, declaring him Leather Apron, and would have lynched the poor sot on sight had the PC not arrived. Dean questions the man thoroughly, but almost immediately rules him out as a suspect. He is not the Whitechapel Ripper. Dean lets the man cool his heels in the cell for three days, regardless. 

Dean finally finds a moment to call on Sam at Bedlam. He sends a telegraph alerting his brother that he shall be there for the early evening, and promptly receives a reply that Sam will make all ready for his arrival.

Dean has not been back to Castiel’s in several days, and while his nerves have been relatively under control, he is beginning to feel unhinged again, so makes arrangements to meet the man at Balthy’s after his visit with Sam. Perhaps sharing an opium pipe with his lover will smooth out the frays in Dean’s mind. 

By the time Dean arrives at Bedlam, Sam has laid out a fine supper for the two of them in his office, having sent his attendant out to the neighboring public house to retrieve suet puddings. The smell of steak and ale lingers in the air, and Dean realizes he has had nought to eat since the early hours of the morning. 

He hugs his brother, then graciously sets to. They converse idly while they eat, exchanging mundane pleasantries as it were. Dean isn’t sure how to bring up the topic of Castiel, and so waits until the meal is finished and the plates have been cleared. Before he can say what he is thinking, Sam opens his mouth first.

“You look distracted, brother. Are you well?”

Dean sighs and leans back in his chair. “Yes. No.” He shakes his head, then continues. “I’m fine for now, but I need to ask why you harassed Castiel so thoroughly when he was here to study with you last.”

Sam nods. “Ahh. Well. He is not right in the head. It is plain as day to me. I may have spurred him on to see what he would do.”

Dean lets out an indignant puff of hot air. “Really, Sam. How do you see that he is not right? He seems more right to me than most I encounter.”

“That is his danger to you, Dean. He is manipulating you to see what he wants you to see. I feel quite certain that he is not who he seems.”

Dean is growing frustrated. Very few people of London are truly as they seem, from the highest of gentlemen to the lowliest of beggars. 

“And do tell Sam, who do you think Castiel truly is?”

“I must tell you something first. I have looked into these Whitechapel slayings. The first girl to be found dead, I agree with the sentiment that it was unrelated. But, Dean. Looking closely at this Martha Tabram case from August past, I can see the exact same aggression enacted upon her body as with the Nichols and Chapman women.”

Dean shakes his head again. “Sam, no. Mrs Tabram was slain with a bayonet, and then stabbed repeatedly with a soldiers knife. The instruments were not the same, and she did not have her throat sliced. We have already found the parties responsible for her demise.” 

“And I say those poor soldiers imprisoned at the Tower are not your men.”

Dean takes a deep breath feeling his nerves begin to agitate. He clasps his hands together to give his body something to do while his mind starts its chaotic spiral. Hesitantly, he asks the next question. “What does this have to do with Cas?”

Sam leans forward, a strange light gleaming from behind his hazel eyes. “Surely you can see the connection? All three of the slain women are whores you have bedded.”

Dean leans forward aggressively, inches from Sam’s face. “Which is why you told him to search me out as the killer! Ass!” Dean leans back against his chair in a rush, momentarily knocking the wind from his own lungs. 

“I told you, I wanted to see him riled. And while I do not believe you to be the true killer, I know it is something you would be capable of. Now, Cas on the other hand... “ Sam smiles, but it holds no mirth. “Have you not seen the way he looks at you? There is a man who would do anything to have you, even murder those he finds as threats.”

Dean rubs his face with his hands, and leaves them in place, covering his eyes for a moment. The temporary blindness is most welcome. If only he could shut his ears and be truly at peace. He lets out a defeated sigh. “Very well, Sam. I’ll look into it.”

Sam smiles again, this time with relief. “That is all I can ask.”

Dean has only consented to investigate, though he finds it to be a long shot, and has nearly offended his own self with this agreement. He lets Sam know. “But I think that you have it all wrong. Maybe if you spent more time with him? In the capacity of friends and conversationalists, not to try and provoke him. Please, give him a small chance to change your thinking. Meet us this evening at Balthy’s and share a pipe.”

“I do not think he will be pleased to see me.” Sam shrugs, but an acquiescent look takes his face. “Very well. As you have agreed to investigate, though it falls against your judgement, I will return the favour and come be witness to your merriment this evening. I shall reassess your friend at that time.”

Dean arrives to Balthy’s first and buys enough opium for the three of them directly from the man. “Mr Winchester! You have not graced my establishment in ages. Shame on you!”

Dean laughs and apologizes. “Work has been hectic, Balthazar. If anything, I should be here more frequently during these times of chaos.”

“Hear, hear!” Balthazar gestures to a chaise and says, “I shall bring your order over forthwith.”

“There will be two others joining me this evening.” Dean pays Balthazar extra for the additional supplies, then heads over to one of the larger lounging areas that have yet to be inhabited. Many of the Dens around London were shabby holes in the wall, patrons lying about on old stained mattress pads, and those who could not fit on those would sprawl inelegantly across the floor. Balthy’s was a touch nicer than all that. While there were pads for those deep into oblivion, there were also tables and chairs, and very finely upholstered settees and chaises, and all manner of things to lounge upon. Balthazar could not abide patrons asleep on his floor.

Dean settles in and sets his pipe to his lips, inhaling deeply the rich smoke. The nerves that had been slowly growing in his body immediately begIn to settle and Dean feels a great relief. He is still nervous about having Cas and Sam together, but is optimistic that it will not be too awkward for the pair to consort this evening. He feels a twang of regret, however, that he had not forewarned Cas that Sam would be joining them. 

As Dean is setting his pipe back to his lips, Castiel walks in to join him, immediately sitting on the lounge so close to Dean that they are practically snuggled. He rests his head on the man’s shoulder as he exhales his dose. Castiel’s presence washes him in a calming aura, easily as effective as the opium itself. He simply states, “I’m glad you are here.”

Cas tilts his head and kisses Dean on the brow, not caring who should see them. In this den of addicts, it is not a place to mind what you do or say, for no one cares to know. Castiel then dislodges from Dean’s side momentarily to set up a pipe of his own, joining Dean in the relaxing smoke. “This was an excellent idea, Dean. The smoke does wonders for the mind!”

“I spoke with Sam today.” Dean looks over at Cas who turns to look at him in turn, curiosity sparkling in his clear blue eyes.

“And has he come to see reason?”

“Not entirely. He has told you that I am a killer, but this day he has told me  _ you _ are the killer. I think he is riling us both up, but to what end, I’ve not a clue.”

Castiel looks deep in thought for a moment, then speaks through a mirthless huff, “Perhaps it is Sam who is the killer, simply trying to pit us against each other so he is not discovered.”

Dean shakes his head. “I - well, the thought had crossed my mind. It’s preposterous, though. That any of us could sink to those depths. I know thee and me have done strange things in the throes, but that does not make us killers, nor does Sam’s growing peculiarity deem him as suspect, either. I don’t know what to think in these dark times.”

“It is entirely possible that your brother has lost the plot. And no wonder, working so closely with all those lunatics. Some of them are not simply insane, but have become so through diseases of the contractible sort. Surely there is a malady that is catching from such contact as your brother has with his patients, both dead and alive. ”

Dean laughs at that, though it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility. “What? You believe Sam to have syphilis?”

Cas shrugs then puts his pipe up to his lips then answers before taking a dose of smoke, “Maybe not syphilis, but something of that ilk. I should like to give him a physical examination.”

Dean knows he should be frustrated by Cas saying these things, but he can only see the truth in them. He again leans his head on the man’s shoulder and rests his hand on his thigh. Cas’ hand falls on top of Dean’s, lacing their fingers together, and they stay this way until Sam arrives.

Dean can hear Sam’s voice from the front of the den speaking with Balthazar, and it takes him several moments to realize he is curled up against another man in a more than friendly manner. He sits straight up and retracts his hand from Castiel’s grip like he has been stung by nettles, looking at the man apologetically as he scoots to the far end of the lounger. 

When Sam joins them at their section, Castiel shoots Dean a frightfully angered look, but is subdued back to his passive face in only a moment. He had neglected to mention to Cas that his brother would be joining them, though with the third pipe sitting untouched on the table, Cas had to suspect they would be having company, if not who. Still, Dean feels a pang of guilt in his gut that quickly turns to butterflies.

Cas graciously nods his head at their new companion and greets him. “Samuel.” Sam in turn gives Cas a tight smile and nods his head to return the greeting. He sits on a chair next to the lounger and Dean hands him the extra pipe, which Sam takes with a grateful sigh.

“It has been a long time since I have chased oblivion.” Sam joins them in the smoke, and all is quiet between them for some time, each man simply enjoying the calming high the opium has blessed each of them with this evening. Dean feels the space between them could be riddled with disquiet, though neither of his companions seem to be harboring any ill will at the moment, so Dean simply allows his mind to wander.

He thinks about the growing unrest of the slums and how powerless he feels to hold the peace. He feels intensely toward the plight of the Jewish people in particular, caught up like albatross in a whirring eddy, trapped in the mindless accusations and antipathy around them. His mind is brought to the man John Pizer, who’s public defamation had caused all manner of upset in his life, and the deciding factor against his character was a matter of parentage. He could be a Bathory, bathing in the blood of virgins for all it concerned the bunters and scrappers of London. His mind then wanders to the fires at the dockside. The conflagration had begun at a currency exchange for inbound immigrants, owned and operated by a polite and civilised Hebrew family. Dean is suddenly thankful for the opium soothing his belly of any nerves his thoughts would otherwise bring him.

Before he knows what he is saying, he blurts out in a too loud voice, “Castiel! You should know something.” Cas and Sam both turn their heads towards him, Dean only now realizing that they had been engaged in conversation, which he rudely interrupted. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper before he continues, “Sam and I are Jewish.” 

Sam shoots him a look that speaks of Dean’s pure and simple feeblemindedness, but says nothing for a time. Castiel pipes up at Dean’s comment however. “I was unaware. Though I don’t see how that should affect our friendship or working relationship.” Dean notes he did not imply the other side of their relationship when he spoke this and his heart sinks, his opium fogged mind not giving thought to the fact that Sam sat beside them. 

Dean is moping now. “Because, no one trusts us, and it always leads to rows when someone finds us out.” He sits up straighter and shouts to the ceiling, “Collie shangles!” With a sudden burst of energy, Dean stands up and leaves the den, his pipe cashed and falling to the cushions where his posteriors just vacated. He does not see the concerned look that Cas and Sam exchange, both of his companions far more clear headed than he, having only partaken in the slightest of doses.

Castiel finds him around the corner, his head resting against an arm as his body leans into the grimy brick of the building. “Why are you upset, Dean?”

Dean peeks an eye up over his bent elbow to wearily watch Cas coming closer. “You’ll be leaving now, since I’m not as English as I claimed. But I didn’t think it was right to lie to you.” 

Castiel furrows his brows in consternation. “I wouldn’t leave, even should you push me away. You belong to me, Dean. You have stolen my love and you are now beholden to it.”

Dean thinks that is an odd way of stating it, but instantly returns the sentiment, and does so with his whole body. If Cas truly loves him and his parentage matters not, then Dean knows he will happily be beholden and give Cas whatever he wants from him. Before he can think twice on his actions, he has pulled Castiel against him and urges the man to box him against the wall. “Fuck me.”

Cas pulls back for a moment to study Dean’s face. His eyes are half-lidded and his mouth is slack, but there is still a sharpness to his gaze that never truly fades. “Right here in the alley? What if someone should chance upon us?”

Dean does not respond with words, but smiles wickedly then pulls Cas in for a heated kiss letting his hands wander down to the crotch of Castiel’s trousers, seeking to find the buttons that will allow him to be released. 

Castiel seems more than happy to oblige. He spins Dean around and slams him against the wall, holding his face against the cold bricks as he rips off his braces and tugs Deans trousers down to his hips with his other hand. Dean presses back with his exposed posteriors and repeats his words, unashamed at the whining and desperate quality to his voice. “Fuck me. Fuck me, please!” 

Castiel clamps his hand over Dean’s mouth as he pulls his head back to rest against his shoulder. Dean can hear Cas spitting into his other hand and subsequently feels a sticky wetness upon his entrance. He feels no discomfort as the other man shoves deep inside him with little ado, the opium dumbing his physical senses. He can feel himself screaming into the palm cupped firmly around his mouth, though not in pain or terror, but purely in joy. He rides the waves of euphoria with abandon, and finds he has no cares about being found out.

He is a deviant and the world be damned should they despise him for this piece of solace. 

That is, he cares not until it is Sam who chances upon them.

A moment ago:

Sam and Castiel converse about the case of Martha Tabram. Sam is still convinced that the killer is the same as the man who had slain Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman, though Cas gives him a skeptical eye. The man is, however, invigorated by the discussion of murder and leans forward to debate the point with Sam, his opium all but forgotten. While his vigor does nothing to confirm his suspicions, Sam knows he will continue to investigate on his own in order to catch Castiel out in some misdeed. 

Dean continues smoking, lost in his own thoughts, staring at the ceiling like it holds all the answers to the world's most epic conundrums. He then suddenly pipes up, almost yelling, “Castiel! You should know something,” and Sam has to stop their discourse mid sentence at the interruption. He and Castiel both look to Dean as he continues in barely more than a whisper, his green eyes darting about the room as if he is lost. “Sam and I are Jewish.”

Buffoon. Sam is baffled by the statement, for they truly are not. At least, not than anyone living could prove. There were some old family portraits of their grandfather Henry, who had married a Jewess after their grandmother had died. But their father, John, had sworn up and down that she was not the one who bore him. Perhaps Dean knew something Sam himself did not? (John did bear a striking resemblance to her, now that he thinks on it deeply). Either way, it is irrelevant, for they were both raised as Englishmen, and were native to the country and the Church of England, regardless of parentage and grandsires wives. 

Before he can question Dean on his line of thought, Castiel first speaks. “I was unaware. Though I don’t see how that should affect our friendship or working relationship.” 

Sam notes that Castiel remains professional in his answer, likely to stop Sam from scrutinizing the statement, which he does with vim anyway. He picks at it like a well-chewed bone, looking to examine every tic of Castiel’s facial muscles, watching for the tells of his deviant intentions toward his brother. 

“Collie shangles!” Dean yells up at the ceiling, and Sam is nearly startled out of his inspection of Cas. Dean jumps up with far more energy than a man who smoked the quantities of opium he just had, and runs out the door. Sam is frankly impressed. His brother ought to be asleep on the floor, so far into oblivion that nothing could stir him.

Sam and Cas sit silent for a moment before Castiel suggests he go after him. Sam places a hand on his shoulder to first tell him his thoughts. He sees something wicked in Cas, but he thinks that a man’s family history is not something that Cas would be particularly concerned with. Regardless, he feels the need to clarify. “It is known by genealogy only, and that is not even a certainty, though I suppose it is likely. He is empathetic to everyone’s suffering, so he considers these things more closely than I.”

When Castiel finally gets up to follow Dean, Sam assures him that he will wait there for his return, unless he has not come back within the hour. Sam in reality waits less than a minute to follow behind, keeping as silent as a man in boots can do. Castiel does not notice him shadowing.

It is with intentions of seeing what Castiel will do or say that he follows. He knows his brother to be capable, but the man is having nerves and may not be of sound judgement. Sam temporarily loses sight of Cas when a toffer stops him on the street and lifts her skirts his way. He is not interested, as his wife is far more pleasing to look upon, but the wench will not give up easily. He has to resort to lifting her physically and setting her to the side in order to pass -- an easy feat, for he is uncharacteristically tall for the English folk and has built up lean muscles in his years of wrangling the insane of Bedlam. 

Sam walks for some minutes and cannot seem to find where Castiel has gone. But when he backtracks, he hears the scuffle of boots on the cobbles, and he is drawn to a secluded alley nearly attached to the den. What he sees almost sends him running to Dean’s aid. His brother is pinned to the wall of the alley, while Castiel’s strong hand covers his mouth and wrenches his head back. Dean’s eyes are screwed shut and Sam can hear the muffled screams that Castiel is trying so hard to keep from escaping Dean’s lips. He is quite clearly distressed, for Castiel is having his way with him like a wild dog would fuck his bitch. He knew Castiel was up to something!

But some peculiar need stops him from intervening. He instead slips deeper into the shadow the mouth of the alley provides and watches with morbid curiosity. He knows this will be of some psychological trauma to his brother, and thinks how fascinating it will be to get inside his mind when the whole thing is done and he can firsthand witness as his derangements manifest. He truly never cared if Dean had been with men, though he was fairly certain he had in the past. But this encounter was surely different. Dean must now see that Castiel is off; the man is brutalizing him, afterall. 

But then something curious happens. Castiel finishes with a few powerful thrusts of his hips, then slowly, almost gently pulls away and whispers into Dean’s ear. Dean laughs--he laughs!-- then turns around to embrace the man. They share a slow kiss, before Cas reverently bends down to his knees, helping Dean to right his trousers. Curiouser and curiouser. When the two men begin to kiss again, Sam has seen enough and steps out of his hiding place, walking towards the two with purpose.

Dean’s face loses all of it’s color as Sam approaches, Castiel’s not looking more than a shade healthier. “Sammy…” Dean’s mouth opens and closes several times, not having words. And again, with more energy than a man who has consumed such quantities of opium, runs off into the night without another word.

Castiel simply glares after him.

What is Cas’ end game? Sam simply cannot trust him. He can bugger all the other nancies in London for all he cares, he is not one to mind the proclivities of others-- though they make for interesting research-- but the man is not welcome inside of his own brother until Sam can prove that he is innocent. And Sam is confident that innocent he is not, that he shall prove guilty of some nefarious crime, and as he is wont to speculate, he is likely the Whitechapel murderer: the Leather Apron, himself. 

“I have told you before, Castiel. He is not for you.”

Castiel says nothing, only turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Sam standing in the alley next to a pool of fresh spunk. He wrinkles his nose, then heads in the opposite direction, back towards his house near Bethlem. 

Castiel eventually finds Dean at Ten Bells, soliciting another tart. When Cas approaches him, he promptly tells Cas to fuck off. He then grabs the laughing whore by her wrist and drags her away, leaving a forlorn Castiel in the dust of his boots. 

Castiel stares at the empty space Dean has created in his departure, and swears to himself that he will get the man back, whatever it takes.

The following morning an ominous letter arrives at H-Division, Lemen Street. 

It reads: 

_ Dear Boss, _

_ I keep hearing the police have caught me, but they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track. That joke about Leather Apron gave me real fits! I am down on whores and I shan’t quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now? _

_ I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I can’t use it. Red ink is fit enough, I hope! Ha. Ha. The next job I do I shall clip the lady’s ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly. Wouldn’t you keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight. My knife’s so nice and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good Luck! _

_ Yours truly,  _

_ Jack the Ripper _

_ PS Wasn’t good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands, curse it! No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now, Ha Ha! _

Unknown to Dean and the constables at the precinct, another copy of the letter is sent to the Central News Agency. While they are busy trying to determine if the note is from the killer himself, the CNA is brewing plans of their own.

Castiel is beside himself. He hasn’t seen Dean in days now, and isn’t sure how to approach him. 

He is called in to examine the letter received by H-Division the previous day (by a man calling himself Jack the Ripper, nonetheless!) to determine if it could be the same man as the killer. Dean has made himself scarce and Castiel does not spy him at all during his time there, and Castiel’s hope of speaking of their relationship is quickly crushed. He is certain the man is avoiding him.

He is half-hearted in his examination, but he determines quite quickly that the letter is a hoax. This was written by a right handed man, and the killer surely used his left to make the killing blows to the women’s necks.

By the end of that dreadfully long Saturday, Castiel makes an impulsive decision to seek Dean out at Ten Bells again, for surely that is where the man shall be. If only he can make him see reason, or at least get him to come to Castiel’s house for a secluded conversation, they could get to the bottom of Dean’s fears. He wasn’t about to give up now that he had a taste of Dean’s true darkness, even if they had to continue on in secret. It was an addiction, his love, and wouldn’t be cleansed from his system with any sort of graceful ease. 

Dean is not at Ten Bells when he arrives, and in a fit of morbs, he nearly leaves, but has a stroke of luck when a young tart directs him to a club on the edge of City of London. “Aye, ‘e was ‘ere, bu’ left ta see wa’s tha wot at this new place.” Castiel leaves immediately hoping to catch Dean before he is too inebriated to stand straight. It is a thirty minute hike and Castiel is out of breath when he arrives, for he has walked quicker than he has ever in his life.

Castiel can see Dean through the entryway of the club. He does not enter, for the man is walking in his direction and Castiel can feel his heart skip a beat. He has never been particularly prone to the nerves, but he is feeling them now. “Dean!” He calls for the man’s attention, and Dean looks up in surprise. It is then that Castiel notices the woman on his arm, hanging on every word the man says. The pair continue on, straight towards Cas, though Dean does not immediately respond.

“Mind the grease!” Dean speaks to him as if he is some stranger in his way, and quickly shoves passed him, his arm firmly wound around the waist of his latest dollymop. And though he does not make eye contact, Castiel can see the sorrow written plainly on his face. Perhaps it is not too late to work things out this evening. He would like nothing more than to have the man over, coitus or no, and to wake up to his smiling face in the morning.

He follows them outside and inserts himself into the couple’s presence. He hands the woman fourpence and tells her he needs a word with her man. She beams at the free money and nods agreement to leave them in peace for the time. Dean is visibly upset by this, but is not speaking a word, nor is he making any sort of eye contact with Castiel.

“Dean, please stop ignoring me.”

He still won’t look up, the cobbled streets holding all of his attention. “I don’t know what to say, Cas. We can’t do this.” He is so quiet, Castiel has a hard time hearing him over the noise of the club, the open doorway and windows letting the revelry out into the open air.

Castiel is not to be subdued so easily, though. He grabs Dean by his frock coat and pulls him into the alley, shoving him against the wall. “Look at me!”

Dean’s eyes flicker up and Castiel can see that he is torn. “I know we were careless, but that doesn’t mean you need to treat me like I no longer exist to you. I’ve quite lost my head for you, Dean, and I won’t accept you not being in my life now.” Castiel leans in and kisses Dean. He returns the kiss with equal amounts of passion and trepidation, and moans wantonly into Castiel’s mouth. It lasts for some time, both men losing themselves in each other, but Dean breaks free from Cas’ hold eventually.

Dean is out of breath when he speaks, and his voice cracks as if he would like nothing more than to hold his words back. “Stop. We can’t do this. I was wrong to act so precipitously, and I was wrong about myself. I am no different than any man, and have realized this was all a mistake. I apologize deeply for any misconceptions you have had about me.” But Castiel can see the clear torment and struggle on Dean’s face and he knows that it is a lie; that he is loved back.

“Dean! I love you, stay with me.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t feel the same, and I’ve seen the folly of my ways.” Dean’s voice fairly trembles as he continues, belying his denials for the falsehoods they are. “You are not wanted. Do not seek me in private again, or I shall have you arrested for buggery.”

Castiel surprises himself as he strikes Dean, perhaps even more surprised than Dean himself, who stands slack-jawed and wide-eyed, cupping his pink cheek in his hand. He fears that he has hit Dean hard enough to mar his delicate features with a ghastly purple bruise. Only time will tell. Castiel is aware that the situation is just as hard for Dean, but he refuses to regret striking the man for his cruel words. 

“Coward!” Castiel spits his words with venom.

Dean slowly lowers his gaze back to the cobbles and nods his head in agreement. He has tears welling up in his eyes and is blinking furiously to hold them back. “I know.” With a sob, the man turns on his heel and runs off back to the club. 

Castiel is both sad and furious that he knows Dean is searching out the tart who was previously on his arm. He leans back against the wall and has to hold back a sob of his own, the unfairness of the world getting to him much as it often gets to Dean.

He knows not why Dean let Sam’s presence distress him so. His brother is half-mad as it is and seems to be keen on sewing seeds of dissent among them. Dean must be able to see this in his brother! His peculiar distaste for Cas is highly unwarranted, and he is not certain what he did to make Sam think him this new slayer of women stalking the streets. Cas has always had dark fantasies, but has kept himself under careful control at all times, lest someone make accusations such as Sam believes. 

He stays there for some time, pondering this liminal space he and Dean are trapped in; this indeterminable period of dark uncertainties. Surely at the end of all this, they can emerge from the depths as a new and wonderful creature. Despite how poorly the night has gone, Cas determines not to give up the chase. But one thing he certainly does know: if the world were just, Sam would be the next to perish. 

Dean feels lost and alone, and it is no one’s fault but his own. Castiel was correct to strike his face, and Dean can’t help but regret the words that spewed from his mouth. His nerves are a wreck. 

He barely recalls doing so, but he finds the tart from earlier and takes her aside to the alley behind the club. She happily lifts her skirts as Dean falls to his knees and presses his face between her thighs. His heart is not in this, but he needs the distraction. A distraction that is less deviant. He can feel the woman writhing above him and has to clench his fists into her skirts at the wanton display she makes. The sounds are not the pitch and timbre he wants, her inner thighs too silken, and frame too slender and soft. He is prepared to stand up and call it a night when she speaks.

“Oo’s ya friend? You ‘int pay me for no looker. Tuppence an’ ‘e can join.”

Dean removes his face from beneath her skirts and directs his eyes to where she looks. Dean’s heart sinks. Castiel is standing farther up the alley, leaning against the bricks--right where Dean had left him only ten minutes past-- with the utmost sorrow painted across his face. When he meets Castiel’s eyes, Dean wants nothing more than to toss this tart aside and go run to him and ask for forgiveness, and his jaw works for several long moments before the words can come out. But the words are not what he wants, only more poison. “He’s no one.”

It is now Castiel’s turn to spin on his heel and flee Dean’s presence. Dean’s heart beats hard in his chest as his vision blurs, and he knows he has broken himself into pieces. His nerves take over so frightfully that he is unable to breathe, and much to his own disastrous luck, he has broken to the point that he recalls nothing more for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Victorian Lexicon:
> 
> “she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid tumble” = she was so drunk, she passed out during sex.
> 
> Tuppence = a twopenny coin. Twelve pennies per shilling, 20 shillings per pound
> 
> Take the egg = win
> 
> Half-shot = drunk  
Knacker = one who collects animal carcases and renders their parts into by-products for other industries
> 
> PC = police constable
> 
> Carman = one who drives a horse drawn cart
> 
> Tart = prostitute
> 
> Toffer = prostitute 
> 
> “prodigious engine” = penis
> 
> Posteriors = rear end
> 
> Dollymop = prostitute (part time, and not professional)
> 
> Dunny = toilet
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute
> 
> Aproner = bartender (also can be used to refer to general tradesmen)
> 
> Squiffed = drunk
> 
> Blootered = drunk
> 
> Section house = the mandated housing for the metropolitan police force (Dean would share his house with at least 6 other PCs, detectives, or investigators from H Division)
> 
> Truncheon = penis 
> 
> Madge = vagina
> 
> Bunter: Prostitute (low class beggar) 
> 
> Braces: suspenders 
> 
> Niminy-piminy: Gay man
> 
> Unnameables: underpants
> 
> "Mind the grease": Said in lieu of “excuse me” when walking through a crowd or trying to pass someone.
> 
> Carriwitchet: conundrum; puzzle
> 
> Mug: asshole; jerk
> 
> Perpendicular: when the pub is so crowded you must eat your dinner standing up.
> 
> Lobcock: flaccid dick
> 
> Nerves: panic disorder and anxiety 
> 
> Morbs: A bout temporary depression
> 
> Melancholia: A long term, severe depression


	5. September 30, 1888

** _Part 1: The Body(s)_ **

It cannot have been more than an hour since Dean’s head hit the pillow and he sobbed himself to sleep when the bell chimes from his door and he is suddenly awoken. His head feels as if it has been stuffed with wool and his senses are still dumbed from the alcohol he had consumed. 

He is pulled away from his fitful slumber by a frantic PC Fitzgerald claiming that another murder has been done. Dean dresses himself in a hurry, then follows the young constable out to the carriage waiting in front of the section house. They pull out onto the gloomy Whitechapel streets and head toward the City of London proper. 

It is with great trepidation that Dean finds where they are going. The club in which he had spent his evening is surrounded by men in uniform, ushering the gawping crowd away from the scene. The dead woman found on the street was the very same he was with not two hours past. Dean’s heart feels as if it has been infested with some vile creature that would surely like to make the damned thing hop from his chest and away from him. And wouldn’t that be a sight. Dean running around frantic, chasing after the blood-soaked organ, screaming, “Halt! My heart hath beat from my chest. Catch the black demon and let me tear it apart myself!” Dean begins to laugh. He cannot stop.

He feels hands on his shoulders leading him away from the scene and finds himself deposited within the carriage that had yet to pull away to search out its next fare. He isn’t certain when the laughing became fits of uncontrolled sobbing, but it is sometime later that he catches his breath and sees that Fitzgerald is sitting across the row from him, looking on with patient concern. 

“It gets to the best of us, sir,” the young man drawls in his Dorset country accent. “I wish there was a cure for the madness of the streets, then good men like thee and me wouldn’t have to succumb to bouts of the morbs now and then.”

Dean nods his head in agreement, but says nothing, instead listens out the window at the sounds of investigators determining what happened there this evening.

“...Where the blooming hell is the surgeon?” 

“...That’s the carriwitchet now. See, no one knows, sir. He’s disappeared.”

“...Throat was sliced, but the killer was interrupted…”

“...He wore a deerstalker and dark coat, sir. I did see the man, and he fled.”

None of it makes much sense to Dean and so he finds himself wholly absorbed in the middle distance, the unfocused nothing that sends his eyes and ears into the calming ether. PC Fitzgerald is speaking again, but Dean can’t find his way back to hear what he speaks until an arm on his shoulder jarrs him out of his nothingness.

“Detective Abberline would like to speak with you, sir.”

“Oh.” Dean supposes it only makes sense. He is known to have been here, and with this very woman around the time of the murder. He is surely the prime suspect and will be subjected to the queries of his higher ups at Scotland Yard. And Abberline is his direct superior. Perhaps there is no one better to question Dean than the man himself. 

But Cas. Castiel had been here, too. Dean knew it was him who had witnessed his coupling with the dead woman. He had been here, too, during the time of the murder. If only Dean could remember anything past catching the man in his spying! His heart is broken by his own folly and he cannot recall anything after causing Cas to flee his presence. 

Surely this has nothing to do with either of them! It must simply be the cruel hand of fate making both men suspect in this foul murder. Though, as far as Dean is aware, Abberline has no knowledge of the other man’s presence, and so Dean decides to keep that bit to himself. If anyone investigates Cas, it will be he himself. 

Abberline steps into the carriage and takes PC Fitzgerald’s place. He asks a series of questions which Dean only half hears, all very standard and straight forward. He tells the inspector that after his coupling with the woman, he walked straight home to the section house, and when he left, the woman was still very much alive. A simple lie that he can easily remember, far easier to recall than what truly happened. Did he slice her throat? Was he now not only deviant, but also a murderer? He can feel himself slipping into a dark place, the walls of his mind prison pulsing with hot pink, sending him into a frenzied free fall. He desperately needs Cas, and that makes the throbbing of his pulse misbehave all the more, for it’s the one thing he should not have.

Not forty-five minutes after his arrival, there is another group of H-Division police joining the fray. “Where’s Winchester, sir? There’s another murder at Mitre square!” Dean collects himself, hoping he is fit enough in the mind to attend to this. Two murders in one night! Dean feels guilty for the relief that floods through him. He knows without doubt that he could not be the one to have done this second act, and perhaps it will clear his name of the first. 

Dean is able to collect himself enough to investigate the second scene while the carman trots the horse drawn carriage across to Mitre Square. This scene is not the Whitechapel side of the border like the other woman, but lies firmly within the boundaries of the City of London borough, and hence will be the official jurisdiction of the City of London police. Dean shows up to lend a hand, regardless, as he is not allowed to investigate the woman at the club and desperately needs to feel useful right now.

Castiel is not called for, being outside of their jurisdiction, and Dean feels the pull deep in his gut to go to him. He wasn’t at the club scene, and Dean suspects he is still out in the air collecting his head from the horrible events between the two of them. The City of London surgeon who is attending is surely not as clever as his friend. Despite this, the surgeon welcomes a fresh set of eyes to the scene, as does the active investigator, and they fill Dean in promptly after shaking his hand.

“This was quite the frenzied attack. Her face and abdomen have been horrifically mutilated, and she is beyond recognition, though there are tarts about that say they know the dress she is wearing. The call her Katherine Eddows.” Dean jots this name down in his leather journal, then tucks the book back in his pocket and follows the men to the body.

She is, indeed, beyond recognition, most of her face having been separated from her head, and the space where her abdomen should be is naught but a hollow shell, viscera and organs having been strewn about. There is something beautifully mesmerizing about the spray of blood and how the shiny bits of organs reflect the bright moonlight, and he pictures the night he and Castiel spent covered in their own blood.

Dean clears his throat then investigates the face of the so-called Ms Eddows. “Her ears have been separated. Have you found them lying about?” 

“No, sir. Any parts not with the body have likely been taken, whether by the man or by foxes we shan’t know ‘til the murderer is apprehended.” Dean sighs. The man calling himself Jack the Ripper claimed he would collect an ear, and ears there are not within his sight. Perhaps Castiel was wrong, and the letter came from the Ripper himself. He won’t know until he investigates further.

Before he can leave, a young PC comes to join them. “Her apron was found at Wentworth Model dwellings, Goulston Street. He wrote up on the wall with some chalk, he did. ‘The juwes are the men that will not be blamed for nothing.’” 

Dean cringes internally. He knows the area to be of primarily Jewish residence, and has patrolled that section of Whitechapel extensively. There is always antisemitic graffiti about, though this is pointing directly at one of them for the killer. Was he so wrong about the man being English? 

He thanks the two men and agrees to the exchange of official reports, seeing as the Whitechapel butcher has now struck in two jurisdictions, then forgoes taking the cabbie and makes the walk back towards the East End to look at the graffiti personally. 

When Dean arrives, there are several PCs investigating the area. He leaves them to it, wanting only to see what the hand looks like. It is clearly written by a different man than he who sent them the letter. Either there are two killers, or the “Dear Boss” letter is a hoax.

** _ Part 2: The Upheaval _ **

When Dean shows up to work the following morning (technically still the same day, for the killings happened in the wee hours), DI Abberline is waiting for him in his office. “Please, come in and sit. We have some things to discuss.”

Dean has a strong sense of foreboding wash over him, but takes the chair on the wrong side of the desk anyway, Abberline having firmly deposited his posteriors into Dean’s rightful chair. “What’s this about, sir?”

“Well.” Abberline clears his throat. “As much as it pains me to say, I must take this investigation from your hands. Our superiors at the Home Office have declared that I should take the lead, and that you will henceforth be placed on a temporary leave from duty.”

Dean is boggled by this. Leave of duty? He has been diligent in his duties to uphold the peace, and despite this murderer remaining at large, he feels he has been quite a boon to the investigation and Scotland Yard. He states as much. “How is it appropriate to set me aside when I’ve spent so much time gathering all the information you see in these files? Have I not been thorough?”

Abberline is blunt in his response, something that Dean both appreciates and is disdainful of. “You’ve done well with the information gathering, I give you that, but you have failed to apprehend any legitimate suspects. And it is not only that. You were seen having a fit at the crime scene last night. And then later, when you showed up out of your jurisdiction, the chief inspector claimed you were overly distracted and seemed lost to your own mind. Methinks you need a rest, boy.” 

Dean rubs his face with both hands as he takes a deep breath. There is likely no use in arguing and so he silently nods his head. He feels like that is a response he’s had far too often of late--no words to be had, just quiet acquiescence to things beyond his control. 

He doesn’t pay attention to where his feet take him until he finds himself standing on a bridge overlooking the dockside. He can see cartloads of Jewish refugees being taken up to the slums where they’ll be packed into run-down housing and left to fend for themselves in the chaos of the streets. He stands there watching the boats unload immigrants for what feels like hours. 

There is a gang of Irish hooligans loitering about the dockside, sneering at the people waiting to be loaded onto the carts. Dean pays close attention to the men. He recognizes several as unsavory fellows who have often caused a ruckus in the street, and he can be certain they are up to no good. He may have had to turn in his warrant card, but that didn’t mean he had to sit by and let them destroy the lives of the good people trying to make a new start in London. Most of the incoming immigrants have been expelled from their Prussian homes, and only seek asylum. Dean feels drawn to protect them.

He moves forward and follows the gang as they leave the dockside. They look to be in pursuit of a family who have chosen to walk rather than wait to be ushered in by cart. Perhaps they have family residing in London already and have no need of assistance. Whatever the case, they either do not see the gang of thugs shadowing them, or they have chosen to ignore them. 

The family, a man, wife, and small boy, are cornered in a cramped alley by the gang. They do not appear to have knives about them, but they are skilled in the fisticuffs and are having a go at the sport. The father is not a fighter and doubles over as he is struck. The wife is clutching her suitcase in both hands and uses it to swing at the head of one of the hoodlums. The suitcase was surely not intended to be used as a blunt instrument, for the latch breaks open and all of the contents spill out onto the piss-covered streets.

Dean runs up to the group and shoves the men off of the family,pointing his pistol to the underside of the tallest thug's chin. He cannot in good conscience pull the trigger when there are so many people about, but he memorises the man’s face and vows to himself to act later. He cocks the hammer, regardless.

“I suggest you move along and let these good people by in peace. I’m feeling strange today and there is no telling if my trigger finger may slip.”

The group of hooligans break up with what would ordinarily be considered good-natured laughter. It is of no concern to them that they cannot harass the family. They do it only for sport and their own desire to feed their cruel whims. This group has always been like that. Easily dispersed, but always found in a fight. 

Dean places his pistol back in its holster, then buttons his coat closed to hide the piece. It is not police regulated, so he did not need to hand it over when his warrant card was taken, but he still does not feel the need to brandish it out in the open. It is just as likely to get him shot or stabbed as it is to keep him safe.

He helps the woman collect her belongings and shows them the way to a friendly public house where they may eat and drink before heading on their way. They are grateful for Dean’s assistance and reward him with a small, yet elaborate, trinket box. He assures them that it is not necessary, but they insist regardless. He tucks it in his breast pocket and decides to place it on the mantle at the section house, showing it off as the proper treasure that it is.

Before they part ways, he tells them they may call on him at any time at Leman Street, though he lets them know he will be on a holiday for the next month. He hopes to see them again, and hopes that they are able to thrive in the overcrowded streets. 

When Dean leaves the family to their fate, he searches the crowded streets where he believes the Irish hoodlums to be loitering. A place he has seen them many times in previous days.

The tall man is there, selling trinkets on a small cart, most of which were likely stolen from migrant, Jewish families. Dean steps inside the Frying Pan public house and drinks a glass of gin while he watches the man from a seat near the window. 

He thinks about the ripper victims while he watches the Irishman peddle his wares. Mary Ann Nichols often drank at this pub. Was she sat here looking out the window, watching as her soon-to-be killer paraded his stolen goods about the streets? No. He doubts the Irish hooligans had anything to do with her death. But it is a thought. He certainly wants this thug to be her killer. It would make things so much simpler. He could take out his pistol, shoot the man dead, and then celebrate a great victory while dancing around his corpse. Everyone on the streets would run up to join in the revelry, all crying out, “The ripper is dead!”

It is nearly dark when the Irishman packs up his few remaining stolen items and shuffles up the street. Dean leaves the pub and shadows behind him. He isn’t sure what his intentions are other that seeing what the lout gets up to at night, but he feels that whatever comes of this, it will be met with righteous action. 

The man turns down a dark alley that looks to be mostly secluded as far as Dean can see from where he follows behind. As he turns the corner in his pursuit, the hoodlum is waiting for him and grabs him by the collar of his frock coat and slams him against the wall.

“You followin’ me, ya mutton shunter?” His face is pressed up close to Dean’s and he can smell the rank breath hit his face along with a few errant drops of spittle.

Dean only smiles, then breaks free of his hold. He has trained in hand to hand as mandated by the police force, and so has an upper hand on the thug. He is quick with his jabs and silences the man with a punch to the throat. Before he is fully aware of what he is doing, he has drawn his folding knife and is stabbing down into the Irishman’s face and neck. He follows through with a final slash to the throat, then lets the bleeding man fall to the cobbles. He will not live long and kicks out his legs in his death throes, his body’s final denial that it is dying.

It begins to rain. Dean stares at the blood running down his hands, mixing with the rain to form pink rivulets that spill to the ground. In his study of his hands, Dean has quick flashes of memory. He can see a girl's face being held still in his hands. He is so frightfully angry and she is part of the cause. He slices her open in a similar fashion, watching as blood leaks down her chin and covers her gown. She is the woman from the club. The woman that Castiel caught him with. The same woman who was found dead not more than two hours after he left her side.

Dean buries his hands in his pockets and starts to run, leaving the Irish thug to bleed alone in the alley. He wishes he had brought a hat so he could hide his face. He has a deerstalker at home, one which he brings out with him frequently. The man who sliced the woman’s throat was seen to wear a deerstalker. Was it truly he, or are these memories only halucinations brought about by the foul murder he has just commited? Dean picks up his pace.

He doesn’t know where he is going, only that he feels as if he is becoming unhinged, more than he ever has before. He knows he is going to be arrested for this murder, and likely they will find that he has murdered the tart he was with the evening last. He keeps running.

Dean is out of breath and is on the verge of panicked collapse when he finds himself pounding on the door of a brownstone in Limehouse parish. His fists do not cease their frantic banging until the door is opened and he falls within, clutching at the man stood before him.

“Dean! What is it?” Castiel’s voice is full of concern. He pulls Dean into a tight hug as he turns them to close the door with his free hand. “Calm yourself! What has happened?”

“I killed him! And I killed her, too. I’ll be hanged, and I didn’t mean to do it. Not any of it. They are both dead and it is my fault. I probably killed all the others! All of the blood in this town should be on my hands…”

Castiel shakes him. “Slow down and breathe. Who has been slain?” He looks at Dean with great concern etched upon his face. His face is the loveliest thing Dean has ever seen. Why has he tried to stay away, to end this wonderful thing between them? Dean surges forward and kisses Castiel. It is awkward and sloppy, and not at all a kindly thing. It is a kiss of pure desperation and ravenous hunger.

Castiel allows it to last for several moments before pulling away. Dean does not like that he has backed off and tries to continue the connection. Cas turns his head and grunts with the struggle. “Must I strike you again, man? Settle yourself and tell me what this is about!” He pushes Dean back with a touch more force.

Dean crumbles to the ground at Castiel’s feet and sobs into his bloodstained hands. He tries not to scream. 

**_ Part 3: The Apology _ **

Castiel sits on the floor of the foyer next to Dean. The man is weeping, his broad shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Castiel can do nothing but rest his hand upon his back until he calms enough to be brought to the parlour.

He has missed Dean’s company something awful, and he can’t help but be smug that he is the one whom Dean has turned to when he is feeling out of sorts, but he doesn’t like seeing him this way. 

It takes some time for Dean’s breathing to come under control. Once he has ceased the hysterics, Castiel takes him by the hand and starts to lead him to the sitting room, but Dean tugs his hand the other way, urging Castiel towards the stairs. “Please,” he begs. “I would like to lie down. If it is no burden to you, that is.” He looks to the ground, shame and sadness colouring his face.

“Very well, Dean.” Castiel sighs, but it is mostly for show. Let the man think that he is no push-over, that he is not entirely happy with the arrangement. He is, of course, thrilled, but he will not let that out into the open.

He takes Dean by the hand and brings him up the stairs to the master bedroom where he helps him remove his shoes, trousers, and overshirt. Once he is down to naught but his union suit, Castiel leaves the room to fetch a basin of water to clean Dean’s hands of the crusted blood that has stained his fair, freckled skin. While he is out of the room, he goes to his medicine bag and prepares a dose of heroin for Dean’s nerves. He doesn’t like that he has had to do this twice now in the last fortnight. It is better than the morphine though, for it is a cure for the morphine shakes and helps to rehabilitate the addict.

When Castiel comes back to the room, Dean has removed his union suit and sits exposed to the air, his legs hang over the edge of the bed with elbows resting on knees and his head in his hands. Castiel silently sets down his supplies while he takes the opportunity to admire Dean in all his naked glory. Dean is still breathing hard, but is not shaking so fiercely as he was upon his arrival. 

“Lie back, Dean. I will take care of your injured hands and soul.” He first prepares Dean’s arm for the injection. Once the medicine is coursing through Dean’s veins and the man is letting out a little sigh of his mental relief, Castiel takes to cleaning the blood from his hands with a soft linen cloth. There is significantly more blood than would have come from the few small cuts Dean has about his left hand. The injuries seem to have come from holding a knife and using it with more force than the grip he maintained allowed, a few small slashes where the blade would have slipped to his own skin. Castiel makes a mental note that Dean’s blade hand used this night was the left.

“I’m so sorry, Cas. I don’t know why I behaved so boorishly.” Though the heroin has calmed him severely, Dean still looks to be on the verge of some intense reaction, like any small thing might send him back into a fit of hysterics. There are tears welled behind his eyelids, though he does not shed them.

“I understand, Dean.” Castiel continues cleaning the dirt out of Dean’s cuts and wraps a clean bandage across his hand as he speaks. “We were entirely reckless and it is not at all unexpected that you might wish to take a step back. Your brother is a quirky fellow and, to be sure, there is no telling what his reaction might be. I can see that he cares for you greatly, though, so I do not suspect he would ever make this publicly known.” Castiel pats Dean’s hand as he finishes with the linen wrapping, then sits on the bed next to the stricken man so he can rub soothing fingers across his skin.

Dean closes his eyes and practically purrs as Castiel runs fingers softly across his neck, chest and arms. He moves his body into each caress, exposing as much of himself to the man as he possibly can, reminding Castiel of nothing so much as a touch-starved cat. 

“Will you kiss me?” Dean opens his red-rimmed eyes and stares up at Castiel. Despite the puffiness and redness from his fit, Dean’s eyes are still the clearest green Castiel has ever seen. They make him reminisce of holidays in the gardens of Kent, chasing foxes and rolling through the tall grass. He leans forward and gently places his lips upon Dean’s. It is a small thing, but filled with everything Castiel cherishes about Dean. 

When Castiel pulls back, Dean is nearly smiling. It is small and barely there, but he looks more at peace than he has since their night at the opium parlor. “I don’t deserve you, Cas.” A frown returns to his brow and he turns his face away. “I have done murder this night. I believe it to be justified and righteous, but it is a murder no less for it. And I acted without thought. The motions took over while my mind went white. And then I was there, my hands covered in blood, and the man gurgling his death rattle at my feet. I remember it all, but like I am seeing the memory through someone else’s eyes.”

Castiel returns to his gentle caress of Dean’s skin while the man speaks. “While I was doing it, I had flashes of memory from the night before. It was such a familiar sensation that it triggered my mind into recalling. I think I may have slit the tart’s throat, too. I cannot be sure if those memories are false, though. They may have been brought about by my fit of nerves. I have seen things before. Horrible things. Tell me I didn’t kill the girl, too.”

Dean turns his face back to Castiel, his eyes imploring and desperate. Even if Dean did kill someone, or even two someones, surely he is not the killer at large. It is not in his nature to seek out victims for the sake of bloodshed or sating some cruel whim as they say the Ripper does. Though it is true that he is sometimes so full of the drink, it seems the man can become trapped within a fugue state, recalling far less than the average sot. Who knows if his character shifts to something else while none others are looking? It is something to ponder. It is also something that secretly excites Castiel. He has known the inner darkness and what Dean has kept hidden even from himself, has pictured Dean with his hands bloodied and panting over a body. And here the man is now, in the aftermath of a deadly fit. His passion is perfection. 

Cas feels that words would only sully what solace he has to offer, so instead of responding to Dean, he stands and removes his own clothing so the two of them are equal in this manner. Dean lets his knees fall apart as Castiel crawls onto the bed, inviting the man to claim his spot inside of Dean. 

Castiel feels as if there is no other space that he fits so perfectly. His hips rest comfortably upon Dean’s thighs, and being of a similar height, there is no awkward bending or straining to capture the man’s lips with his own. And when he is fully and truly within the man, there is no greater magic or witchery known to mankind. He is deeply embedded within Dean, in every way imaginable, and Castiel silently vows to never let anything come between them, no matter the nature of the deeds he must act out to make it so. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Victorian Lexicon:
> 
> “she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid tumble” = she was so drunk, she passed out during sex.
> 
> Tuppence = a twopenny coin. Twelve pennies per shilling, 20 shillings per pound
> 
> Take the egg = win
> 
> Half-shot = drunk  
Knacker = one who collects animal carcases and renders their parts into by-products for other industries
> 
> PC = police constable
> 
> Carman = one who drives a horse drawn cart
> 
> Tart = prostitute
> 
> Toffer = prostitute 
> 
> “prodigious engine” = penis
> 
> Posteriors = rear end
> 
> Dollymop = prostitute (part time, and not professional)
> 
> Dunny = toilet
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute
> 
> Aproner = bartender (also can be used to refer to general tradesmen)
> 
> Squiffed = drunk
> 
> Blootered = drunk
> 
> Section house = the mandated housing for the metropolitan police force (Dean would share his house with at least 6 other PCs, detectives, or investigators from H Division)
> 
> Truncheon = penis 
> 
> Madge = vagina
> 
> Bunter: Prostitute (low class beggar) 
> 
> Braces: suspenders 
> 
> Niminy-piminy: Gay man
> 
> Unnameables: underpants
> 
> "Mind the grease": Said in lieu of “excuse me” when walking through a crowd or trying to pass someone.
> 
> Carriwitchet: conundrum; puzzle
> 
> Mug: asshole; jerk
> 
> Perpendicular: when the pub is so crowded you must eat your dinner standing up.
> 
> Lobcock: flaccid dick
> 
> Nerves: panic disorder and anxiety 
> 
> Morbs: A bout temporary depression
> 
> Melancholia: A long term, severe depression


	6. October 1-18, 1888

Dean awakens sweating and gasping for air. It takes him a long while to recognize where he is, so out of sorts the dream has left him. He can still feel the blood trickling across his fingertips and down his arms. A girl lies bleeding to death under his feet. It is sticky and the smell is so overpoweringly metallic he has to dart to the copper basin to expel the contents of his stomach. 

He can hear Castiel stirring in the bed he just vacated and feels a boor for waking the man, suddenly feeling like a young girl caught up in her mania. He should not react so violently to things unseen. The blood is only in his mind. 

Castiel approaches and places a cool, soothing hand on Dean’s back, slowly rubbing circles into his clammy skin. “I don’t know what is wrong with me.” Dean tries hard not to break down in a sobbing fit. The nerves have never got him so hard before. All the death around him has surely begun to take its toll, and Dean has to wonder if he should ever be normal again. 

And now he has killed a man. An act of passion, no doubt, but the truth still remains. And the dreams and visions so vivid of slicing the young tart’s neck open must surely mean that he is responsible for that death as well. Has he murdered others? It is not for the first time that he thinks poorly of his behavior when it comes to the drink. He has lost too much time to recall all of what he has done. He cannot currently decide if he is man or monster. 

Castiel wipes his face and neck down with a cool rag then leads him back to the bed. “Will you tell me about your dreams?”

Dean sits hard and sucks in a calming breath. He is so pathetic in this moment he doesn’t know how Castiel can possibly stand to be around him. Despite this, a comforting arm rests around his shoulders, drawing him in to lean against the man’s cool, dry skin. 

“I think I may have killed the girl at the club. The one you saw me with.” Dean is loathe to bring up his hateful behavior towards Castiel that night, but he must speak plainly and relieve the load from his chest. “After you left us, I recall naught but fleeting glimpses of the night. But I keep having vivid flashes of standing over her, a bloody knife in my hand and gore straining to reach my boots as it flowed from her neck. They aren’t memories, but more like I’m watching through someone else’s eyes as they do this foul deed. But that cannot be, can it? I cannot see through another’s eyes, so I must be he, the one who has slain her.”

Castiel squeezes his shoulders before speaking. “It may be that your visions are false. Is it not possible they are induced by your fits? The nerves can cause all sorts of unhappy problems in the mind.”

Dean turns a hopeful eye to Castiel. “Do you think that could be true? I have killed a man last night, this I know to be fact. But if there is a chance he is the only one, perhaps my mind can rest at ease.”

Castiel places a soft kiss to his lips and Dean closes his eyes. “Whatever has happened, I will be here to help you through it, no matter what the truth be.”

Abberline thought he was prepared to take lead on the investigation of the Whitechapel murderer when the Home Office gave him his assignment. And while he is perhaps the most qualified to figure out this sick killer and catch him, he realizes now that he is certainly not so prepared as he first thought. He has to give DI Winchester a nod at his immaculate note taking and record keeping, for without his thorough investigations, there would yet be months of work to catch up on.

As it is, Abberline feels as if he could fall behind at any moment. There are so many rumours and so much hearsay fluttering from the lips of every scrapper and tart in the East End that they would need four times the current investigators in order to follow up on every lead. No wonder poor Winchester was falling apart.

Abberline so desperately wants to reinstate the man -- he is the biggest boon to this case as any they could find -- but Home Office orders are Home Office orders. He supposes a short rest to ease his mind will do the boy good. He determines to give it one week before checking in on him and seeing if he is fit for reinstatement, Home Office be damned.

He is looking through the most recent stack of statements regarding this so-called Leather Apron when young PC Fitzgerald enters his office with a postcard held gingerly between his thumb and middle finger. “Sir, you ought to take a look at this. Just arrived by post, sir.”

Abberline thanks the young man and pulls out his reading spectacles. The front and back are smudged with blood, but the writing is still clear enough to be read.

_ I was not coddling, dear old Boss, when I gave you the tip; you’ll hear about Saucy Jacky’s work tomorrow. Double event this time! Number one squealed a bit; couldn’t finish straight off. Had not time to get ears off for police. Thanks for keeping the last letter back ‘til I got to work again! _

_ -Jack the Ripper _

Abberline sighs and thinks to himself as he pulls out the file containing the Dear Boss letter from last week. The post date on the new card is dated for after the two women were found slain, so it is plausible that this card did not come from the actual killer. He finds the previous letter and compares the two. To the best of his ability to read such things, it looks like the pair came from the same hand. He glances to Surgeon Novak’s notes and takes into consideration his opinion that the original was a hoax, for the slant to the letters does not indicate a left-handed writer. Perhaps this is the same trickster trying to rile everyone up. But to what end? Are the murders alone not enough to do such a thing?

He makes a few notes of his own on the subject when PC Fitzgerald comes back in, without a knock this time, holding out a copy of the afternoon Star. It appears the Central News Agency was hard at work spreading official police business to the local papers, for there in bold headlines is the Dear Boss letter, plain as day for all the men and women of London to fuss over. 

It seems his job has just gotten harder, for now he has a list of media representatives brewing in his mind that he will have to interview forthwith. He does not suspect them of being the killer at large, but he does suspect that some journalist lout has been up to some mischief in the name of increased profits. He makes certain there is a cell free to hold the blasted mug who has created these false letters. 

Castiel must attend to work at the coroner’s office, and so bids Dean to stay at his home to rest his mind. He sets out some laudanum for Dean should his nerves get bad while he is out, and makes sure there is fresh bread and milk from the market. 

When he arrives to work, Samuel is there speaking softly with the coroner. Today’s headlines have been all the talk on the street, and Castiel can only assume his superior is asking after Sam’s opinion on the “double event”. He is quite the noted psychiatric physician, after all, and has the keenest of insights.

He has not spoken to Sam since their ill-fated night at Balthy’s, but he does not fear that Sam will spread tales of his deviancy. He would surely keep his own brother safe from the scandal. 

“Ah, Dr Novak! Just the man I was hoping to see.” Sam stands up straight and holds his hand out to Cas in greeting, no traces of animosity written on his clever face. Castiel is sceptical of the intentions of this visit, but he shakes the man’s hand and gives a warm and friendly smile, if only for the sake of the coroner’s presence. 

“I will leave you two gentlemen to your task. I will speak with you on a matter of handwriting when you are finished, Dr Novak. DI Abberline has asked after your opinion.” The coroner nods to the men, then walks off to his exam room where Castiel can see the corpse of Katherine Eddows lying on the metal slab for further examination.

Sam speaks as soon as the coroner leaves the room. “The woman lying there in the morgue, have you looked at her?”

“Of course. I had her on my table at Leman yesterday before she was brought here. Why do you ask?”

“And the other woman, with her throat cut the same night, you have looked at her as well?”

Castiel is becoming frustrated but keeps a calm exterior. He is curious to the line of questioning. “Yes. And again, why do you ask?” 

Sam looks down to a journal he is holding which contain several neatly scrawled notes. “Elizabeth Stride. That was the first woman found. Have you found any discrepancies between miss Stride and miss Eddows?”

Castiel sighs. Sam has a report of all events in his hands, of course he already knows what Castiel is about to say. He states as much. “Why ask you these questions, Samuel? You know quite well that the two were only similar in that both had their throats cut. Liz Stride was killed outside a workman’s club, where hundreds of gentlemen were milling about. She was most likely killed in a fit of passion. Miss Eddows was completely disemboweled. She with a long bladed knife, where Miss Stride was slain with a short blade, likely a folding knife. They were not likely to be killed by the same man.”

Sam nods at this. “Two different killers, Castiel. Now tell me this. Was my brother not found to have escorted Miss Stride that very evening? And were you not to be found at all when sought out by the constables to investigate the scenes?”

“Christ almighty, Sam! Not this again. What are you saying about Dean and myself? Can you not let this query rest?” Castiel thought perhaps Sam had given up on trying to call Dean and himself killers, he had been pleasant conversation at Balthy’s after all. Castiel suspects this has more to do with his deviant acts with Dean and Sam wanting to wedge more distance between them than it has to do with any genuine suspicions.

Castiel lowers his voice so the coroner cannot overhear from his work station in the other room. “Is this about what you saw?” 

Sam has the audacity to laugh. “I do not care if you are a buggerer. I can see you. And I can see that you are causing my brother further fits. Fits that could cause him to act out in such a manner as slitting a poor young woman’s throat. Sexual deviancy is… boring. There is something far more wicked about you and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. There should be no evidence leading back to Castiel; he has his dark thoughts, but he is always so careful not to be caught out in them. “Why do you throw accusations at me? I understand that you sense I’m not common like the louts of the slums, but this Ripper? Surely you have better sense than to suspect me of such things. There are no clues that lead to me!” Castiel takes a deep breath and looks into Sam's eyes as he continues. “And I do nothing but care for Dean. He comes to me when he has his fits, and I do naught but calm him!”

“Naught but calm him? Is that what you call it? You do naught but confuse him! He is not like you, Castiel. I know he has experimented with his proclivities in the past, but that does not inherently make him… whatever you are. You are changing him, and not for the good. You bring the fits about, whether you can admit it or no. Will you make him a killer with your ‘care’? Or have you already?” 

A dapple of sunlight comes in through the window and falls across Sam’s eyes and Castiel notes that his pupils do not seem to react at the change in light. Curious. Strange neurology would assuredly account for his paranoia, if not excuse it. While it is true that Dean seems to have been the one to have killed poor Liz Stride, admitted from his own lips no less, it is the increased agitation of Sam’s accusations that has Castiel wondering at how fit the man truly is. 

“Inspector Abberline is handling the investigation of Dean’s involvement with miss Stride. It is not something you should concern yourself with at this time. He has had a rough go of it. If you wish to help, be there for him as a brother and offer comfort, and stop feeding him ungodly ideas. It is you riling him up that causes fits, far more so than any professional care I may offer.”

“How can I offer comfort when the man is missing? He has not been seen or heard from since evening last. Have you stolen him away to do further harm?”

“Stolen?” Castiel sighs again. This is becoming preposterous. He has work to do and Sam is making certain that he will need to cool down for some time before he can commit to being productive. “No one has stolen him. Sam, I think you should see a doctor. I would offer, but I do not think you would accept my care. But it is my professional opinion that you suffer from syphilis. Your mind is creating horrid conclusions to situations that are currently unsolvable.”

Sam laughs again. “You are now trying to spin the blame upon me! Next you’ll be saying that I am the Ripper, when it is you that the police should sentence and hang! Where is he?”

Castiel is not entirely comfortable with telling his address to the lunatic, but in the nature of transparency, he feels he should let the man go to his brother. With some trepidation, Castiel writes his address down on a slip of paper and hands it to Sam. “Please, do not rile him up. He has been dosed with laudanum two hours past and may be sleeping still. I am taking it on good faith that you will not harm him or my home.”

With that, Sam leaves and Castiel is left staring after the space he vacated, wondering if it was right to set the man upon Dean. He never wished more than now that he had a telegraph machine so he could forewarn Dean of the impending invasion. He thinks of the inventor, Samuel Morse, and what his very first telegraphed message had read. “What hath God wrought?” Indeed.

When Castiel returns to his house, he finds Dean sitting on his bed, dressed only in his linens, and looking awfully stricken. An old bayonet lays across his knees and a long bladed knife sits beside him. At first Castiel thinks that Dean may have done something irreparably foolish, but upon closer examination, he notices that they are not just any weapons, but are his father’s old war arms that the man has taken out of storage and is now holding like they are the answers to all elusive questions. 

Dean eventually looks up at Cas, his eyes wild and red rimmed. The bottle of laudanum that Castiel left next to the bed is far emptier than it ought to be. Dean must be quite out of his mind right now. Castiel thinks to himself that he should have prepared a physic with lesser amounts of the opium, for he fears Dean is becoming addicted to the medicine.

“Let us have words about Martha Tabram.”

Castiel blinks several times before he responds. This is a peculiar topic, and it takes Castiel a moment to catch on. The realization as to what Dean implies is quite clear on his face. She was slain with such tools as what Dean now holds in his hands. Tools found in Castiel’s own home. Things that have remained hidden. It must look quite suspect.

“Yes, Dean. Martha Tabram. What would you like to talk about?”

Dean hefts the bayonet in his hand, pointing the sharp end toward Castiel’s chin. “Walk me through it. How was it done? With a weapon such as this, was it not?” 

Castiel determines to start counting how many times he must sigh in the span of one single day. This surely counts to at least twelve. It truly was a mistake to allow Sam entrance to his home while he was away. 

Castiel takes a moment to steady himself, then walks Dean through the report to the best of his recollection. “She was stabbed repeatedly about the abdomen with what we determined to be a bayonet.” He casts his eyes down to the bed where the knife lays, then continues. “She was then attacked multiple times with a seperate weapon. A long bladed soldier's knife, such as the one beside you.”

“Such as the one beside me.” Dean lowers the bayonet, placing the weapon on the bed next to himself. He slowly stands and takes a step towards Castiel. He has picked the knife off the bed and has a strange menace in his eyes that Cas has not heretofore witnessed. He is more curious than he ought to be right now, but he cannot help but wonder at how glorious Dean must have looked when he lost his wits and attacked the Irishman. Or when the woman, Liz Stride, was slit at the throat. Did his eyes sparkle with the same dark fire? Would he now try and tame the devil his opium-addled brain believes Castiel to be?

As much as he would love to watch Dean succumb to his darkness, Castiel is not willing to go down without a fight. He allows it when Dean begins yelling, accusations of Castiel’s involvement in Martha Tabram’s demise, accusations surely put there by Sam’s meddling this day. And he allows it when Dean grabs him by the lapels and shoves him against the wall, the soldier’s knife jabbing against his throat as Castiel remains silent and staring.

“Admit it! Sam was right all along! I have found the evidence. So what have you to say for yourself? Speak up!” But Castiel no longer allows it when Dean presses the knife hard enough to draw blood. He can feel the sharp pinch of the blade as a small trickle of his vitae drips from the wound, and Castiel lets a bit of his own darkness out in response. 

It is an easy thing to subdue Dean. The man is well-trained in hand-to-hand combat, but he has also consumed far too much laudanum to have his full reflexes. With two quick moves, he has Dean disarmed and lying on the floor at his feet, his father’s long-bladed knife now in his own hands where it belongs. 

Dean stares up at him with wide eyes, fear plainly etched across his handsome features. “Don’t... You know I couldn’t actually hurt you, Cas!” He shuffles backwards until his back hits the bed, Castiel still frowning down at him, knife in hand. His face must show something terrible for Dean to react so.

“Stand up.” Castiel motions with his blade to accentuate his words. He will not have Dean groveling before him like some pathetic cur begging for scraps. 

Dean complies slowly; he stands and stares, speaking very little. “What do you want from me? Am I to die next?”

Castiel sets the tip of the blade to Dean’s chin, lifting his head slightly. He wraps his free hand around the man’s throat. He does not apply much pressure, simply enough to hold him in place as he drags the tip of the blade down his chest to rest at the soft skin of his belly. “Is that what you would like? To die this day?”

Dean has become like a startled doe, caught up in the flashing lantern of a hunter, unable to move except for the uncontrolled trembling of limbs. Castiel notes that despite the outward terror, Dean has become undeniably aroused, his prodigious engine standing erect in wanton display. He is irrevocably drawn to the danger and violence.

“Lie down on the bed.” Dean’s eyes grow fractionally wider at the command, and with stumbling motions, he blindly feels behind him for purchase on the plush duvet and crawls up onto the bed and lies back. Castiel leaves his hand wrapped around Dean’s throat and the blade pressed firmly to his abdomen the whole time, moving to straddle the man’s knees once he is planted firmly upon the bed.

“Please, don’t... don’t kill me.” Dean’s eyes become frantic as Castiel leans towards his face, the knife digging into his flesh as he does so.

“I couldn’t kill you, Dean. I love you too much.” He leans in further and plants a soft kiss to his lips. He can feel the other man sighing, a gentle whisper of breath across his face. Dean has not stopped shaking, but his eyes close, and some of the terror drains from his features. He pushes into Cas as much as the hand wrapped about his throat and blade at his belly will allow. 

Castiel pulls back and regards Dean. His eyes flutter back open and study Cas in return. Dean seems truly surprised by what he sees there, his wide-eyed gaze now something of wonder rather than fear. Castiel feels like he should discuss their situation before continuing on with any of the sordid acts he would most certainly like to partake in with the man; he owes Dean that much at the very least.

“These weapons you have found--they belonged to my father. He was a soldier and fought valiantly in many battles for England. He was slain in the Transvaal rebellion, some seven years past. These tools of his trade are all that were returned to me of his belongings, and my mother and other siblings died years before that during an outbreak of cholera. These keepsakes are all that is left of my family, and I assure you I have not used them to do murder, not now or ever. I truly believe the two soldiers who are still held at the Tower are the real culprits.” It was an honest statement. Castiel had not slain the woman in question, and he hoped Dean could see the truth of it in his eyes.

“I believe you.” Dean smiles shyly at Castiel and beckons him down for another kiss. “I’m sorry I attacked you.”

“Think nothing more of it, Dean.” 

Castiel moves to place his father’s blade on the small table beside the bed when Dean catches his wrist. “No, Cas, keep the knife.” Castiel cannot help but smile wickedly down at Dean, pleased that he may yet be able to act out some of his darkness. He isn’t sure if he would have done it this way had Dean not calmed down on his own, but he is thrilled to pretend Dean’s struggles are still real. 

Sam was upset that Dean had chosen to stay at Castiel’s home. He couldn’t see that the man was up to no good, so blinded by his altruism. He had thoroughly combatted Dean’s denials that Castiel was a good man through logic and perseverance. Sam feels he did the job of planting a seed of doubt within Dean at the very least.

And so when Sam left, fully intending to head home and attend to his wife, Amelia, Dean had been in a right shambles. Sam's guilt at riling his brother up hit him hard. Perhaps it was not safe to leave him at the home of a lunatic when he was in such a defenseless state. Sam doubted that Castiel would do murder to his brother, as in love as the two seemed, but it was not outside the realm of possibility. 

Before Sam could think further on the notion, he turned around and started his march back to Castiel’s house. He would hopefully make it back before the man got home, collect his brother and escort him back to his own house in Southwark. Amelia was skilled in care of the feebleminded, for her own uncle had been one of those who was inflicted. Dean, although temporarily, could fairly be considered akin to the man in his present condition of nerves and melancholia. He would be well looked after.

The door is locked when Sam returns. He takes out tools that would help him open the door without a key, and quickly gains access to the residence. When he enters the master bedroom for the second time in as many hours, he is not prepared for the scene before him. 

Castiel has his brother naked and subdued, his arms tied behind his back and a powerful grip around his throat. Castiel’s other hand holds a long-bladed knife, the kind commissioned to soldiers, held precariously close to Dean’s eye. Dean stares wide-eyed at the blade and lies panting, tiny gasping breaths escaping his mouth in a plea for release. All the while Castiel is saying horrible things. “If you move, I shall rip you open. You don’t want to die, do you?”

Sam lets his instincts take over. He lunges at Castiel and grabs him in a submission hold across the throat and drags him backwards off the bed, and more importantly off of Dean. With skill and a bit of luck, he should have the man unconscious in under two minutes. Castiel drops the knife dangerously close to his brother’s face, and he makes a note that he shall have to apologise quite profusely for the near miss. 

What Sam isn’t expecting is for Castiel to be so clever and to outmanoeuver him. He topples Sam backwards with a powerful kick to the bedpost and Sam is forced to loosen his grip long enough that Castiel is able to twist free.

“Sam, stop! Things are not what they seem! Calm yourself and we can talk!” Sam isn’t sure if it was Castiel or his brother who said the words, but they are obviously lies. To be sure, Castiel would try to talk his way out of the situation, and Dean? Well, Sam is well aware that prisoners sometimes bond with their captors in peculiar ways. Dean’s affections for the man are nothing more than this strange syndrome, brought on by his nerves.

He lunges again for Castiel, knocking the man to his back on the wooden floor boards. Sam straddles him quickly and throws punches. Castiel is able to block most of them from his face and head, making it a longer process to completely subdue the man than he would like. A single, solid strike makes it past Castiel’s blocking arms and the man suddenly becomes sluggish. 

He can hear Dean screaming behind him, but cannot make out the words. He has too soft of a heart, and Sam knows he would not see Castiel harmed, even if the man had nearly murdered him not two minutes past. Sam does not want to think of what would have become of Dean had he not decided to come back for him.

He is about to strike Castiel a second time now that his arms have gone lax and knock him into unconsciousness completely when he feels a cool pinch in his side. It does not hurt at first, but paralyzes his actions. Long confused moments go by as Sam looks to his side to see the blade end of a bayonet stabbed into his flesh. He looks up to see his brother standing over him, cut ropes still hanging from the end of his wrists, holding the shaft end of the bayonet. His eyes are wide and filled with tears. “Sammy, don’t.” His voice is but a whisper.

Sam still feels no pain from the stab wound. Perhaps it is shock, or the surge of adrenaline he now feels. Castiel has done irreparable damage to his brother and he knows not what he is doing! He will have to take the poor fellow to Bethlem and lock him down where he will be safe from himself and others. At least until Sam can determine if he can be fixed and set back to his old self. With renewed strength, Sam grasps the shaft and yanks the bayonet free from his flesh and free from Dean’s hands. He swings, knocking Dean across the side of the head, causing his brother’s eyes to go glassy and dropping him to his knees.

He turns his attentions back to Castiel and plainly states, “You have ruined him.” His hands squeeze down on Castiel’s throat. He feels an uncanny calm wash over him as he decides he is no longer of a mind to take Castiel unconscious, but to eliminate the man completely. He is a murderer and lunatic, and shall from here on out never enact his foul tendencies upon another human. 

Castiel struggles weakly beneath him, still not fully recovered from the initial stunning blow. His slender fingers wrap around Sam’s wrists, and the vein in his forehead becomes prominent with the force of Sam’s grip. Sam squeezes tighter and shakes the man several times. 

Sam is yet again taken by surprise as his brother yanks him back by the throat, the same subduing hold that Sam had first used on Castiel. They fall backwards in the struggle, the smaller body of his brother crushed beneath his superior form. He feels a knife slip into his gut a second time. This time it tears and burns and sets each and every nerve ending on fire. Sam gasps as he can feel the blood leaking down his ribs and struggles to catch breath. Surely his lung has been hit by the blade and he will need a surgeon’s immediate care if he should like to live through this altercation. He idly wonders if Castiel would be up to the task and lets out a gurgling, choked laugh, blood filling into his mouth, before a sudden snap pinches his neck and everything goes dark.

Castiel had daydreamed on more than one occasion of ridding the world of Sam’s presence, but he never wanted it to happen like this. He thought the man should be locked in his own asylum, the same place he had worked and tortured countless souls over the years. He never wanted the man truly dead, or at least, not by Dean’s own hands. 

He is not sure Dean will ever be the same after this. He had already been slipping downward, his nerves becoming something hard to control. Castiel thought to hone Dean if he could not cure him of his malady; turn him into a blade of righteousness and to strike down the wicked. 

Castiel watched in stunned awe as Dean tore Sam away from him. The blood rushed too quickly back to Castiel’s brain to allow him any clever thoughts and he had blindly reached out for the blade Dean had used to cut his binds and stabbed upwards into Sam’s abdomen. When he continued struggling Dean had snapped the poor fool’s neck.

And now Dean sits cradling his brother, rocking back and forth, a long melody of “nonononono” escaping his spittle-slick and tear-stained lips. 

Castiel must cough several times, for his throat feels bruised and raw. He will be eternally thankful towards Dean for saving his life, but he cannot be certain that the cost will not be too high. He is very much in love with the man, and is afraid that what Dean feels for him will only turn into bitter resentment for having chosen lover over family this day. 

Castiel gives Dean as much time as he feels he can allow. They must act quickly if they are to be found innocent of any wrongdoing. Either he must hail down a bobby and bring them to the scene, showing that Sam was murdered in self-defence, or they must begin preparing the body for disposal. He is not sure which would be the best action, for he wants to do right by Dean in this moment. Castiel comes to the conclusion that calling for a bobby and the police ambulance will be for the best in the long run. 

Castiel had not yet removed his clothing during his and Dean’s attempted romp, so retrieving his shoes and placing them back on his feet is a quick matter. “Dean, I must call for the police. I will leave you only for a moment.” His voice is too hoarse and his words crack as he speaks. Dean does not respond, but continues his soft cries of “nonononono”.

Before he leaves, he cuts the remaining rope from Dean’s wrist and hides the suspicious item away, tugs a clean pair of linens over Deans legs, collects the police whistle from Dean’s frock coat, then goes out to the corner to get the attention of the PC on patrol of his area. In a matter of minutes, there are not one, but two constables heading his way. He recognizes neither of them, but the PC Fitzedmond is the only he has had significant dealings with, and neither are he. “Please, quickly. This way! A madman broke into my home and accosted my friend and I.” Castiel turns back to his house and jogs up the steps, beckoning the constables to follow.

“He is up the stairs. I am afraid we had no choice but to put the man down, else he kill us both with his bare hands! My friend is still within and does not do well.” He runs up the stairs and back to Dean, who is still rocking back and forth, holding the limp carcass of his younger brother. He is blood-spattered and beautiful. If only Castiel had the gift of art, he would hold onto this image and paint it, forever capturing the haunted perfection behind Dean’s eyes. He shakes his head to clear it of the thoughts. No, not like this; Dean has slain his own kin, the only family he has ever truly known. Castiel will not think on the beauty of it. 

Castiel is as gentle as he can be as he crouches down next to Dean and attempts to usher his trembling form away from the corpse so the constables can investigate the scene. “Dean, the police are here. We should get you cleaned up so they can take Sam to the coroner.”

Dean shrugs out of Castiel’s grip and lies down next to Sam, mindless of the pooled blood he places his face in. His eyes are glazed and he appears to have regressed to some childhood place in his mind, for he brings his knees up to his chest and begins to suckle at his thumb like a babe. His other hand reaches out blindly for Sam, eyes not seeing, and his bloody fingers make grasping motions. 

Castiel feels his heart clench at the sight. Dean has always been a strong man, despite his frequent fits. His altruism and quick wit made for a man who was both kind and detail-oriented in his work with the police. He should never have been allowed to rise to the rank of detective inspector, had the metropolitan police been aware of his nerves, but his ability to keep that terrified part of himself secret up until late was a further sign of his strength. But now, he is nowhere to be found in that usually shrewd mind of his. 

One of the constables inhales a hissing breath. “Detective inspector?” The man recognizes Dean, and that is not an odd thing, for even though Castiel is sure he does not work from the Lemen branch or reside in the section house with Dean, he still has surely taken orders from the man at some time or another. 

Castiel drapes a blanket over Dean and then steps to the side to speak with the constables. Lafitte is the name on the badge of the officer who recognized Dean. He places his hands over his gut in a show of nausea at the occurrence and widens his eyes as he looks to the men, though he truly feels nothing of the sensation. He gives a choppy statement that the officers jot down, and tells them that he was examining Dean as his doctor when Sam burst in and attacked. Castiel’s throat is already covered in red and yellow bruises and will certainly turn to purple by day's end. His arms are also smattered in defensive wounds from the multitude of blows Sam tried to connect. The police also make a note of this. Castiel is told to not leave the premises until the police photographer has been called.

Castiel sits on the edge of the bed and watches Dean lie vacant on the ground, reaching his fingers out to hold Sam’s hand. He sits and watches for what feels like hours, though the sun has only just set. 

When the photographer arrives, he is to pose with his chin up and his arms raised, bent at the elbows, to show off his myriad wounds. The photographer then sets the camera to capture a final image of Sam, Dean yet suckling away at his thumb and curled up at his side. He thinks it is disgusting that they should eternalize this moment of Dean’s weakness and is tempted to move the man, but alas the police will need this evidence. Dean’s reaction would indicate that this was truly a crime of defense, and had never been premeditated. The two of them would be considered innocent of any wrongdoing. And so Castiel does nothing to save Dean from the humiliation he knows he will later feel. The shot is taken in a puff of light and smoke, forever capturing the sad scene.

News of Sam Winchester’s death sits heavy with Abberline. Upon hearing the news in the early hours of evening last, he had personally gone to the scene to see for himself, despite the growing pile of reports to sift through involving the Ripper case. He needed Dean back in top form, and this would certainly set his mental recovery back far too significantly for Abberline to have any hope of his help. Not only that, but Sam was a good fellow, if a bit quirky, and his research into abnormality proved to be quite invaluable.

Abberline was known to be a somewhat callous man, but the state of the detective inspector was enough to make even the strongest man weep. Poor Dean had been sat upon the bed, covered in blood from face to feet, and the only response anyone could get from the man was a softly whispered, “I’m so sorry, Sammy.” His eyes remained unfocused and glassy as he stared out at some middle distance, visions dancing around in his mind, and unable to see the rest of the world around him. 

If it weren’t for the good surgeon Novak, no one would have known what had transpired. Dean was so very lucky to have such a good friend. Abberline had suggested that Dean take his care from the asylum while he got his mind back in order, but Castiel had been quite firm that he would take the time to care for the man in his own home. 

Abberline grimaces as he glances through the morning paper. It has been barely more than 12 hours and it seems the reporters have already begun their feeding frenzy. Today's headlines read, “PEELER SLAYS OWN BROTHER! METROPOLITAN REFUSES TO COMMENT.” How had Dean managed to find the time to regularly interview these bastards is beyond Abberline.

There is a knock on his office door that pulls him out of his thoughts. PC Fitzgerald enters and places a poorly wrapped parcel on his desk. “This was just dropped off at the front doors, sir. No one seems to have saw who left it.” 

“Thank you, Fitzgerald. I would like for you to go to Bethlem this day and search through Samuel Winchesters office and exam room. We must see if there are clues as to why he has attacked his own brother and the good surgeon the evening last.”

PC Fitzgerald nods his acknowledgement. “Very good, sir.” He ducks out and closes the door behind him leaving Abberline to examine the unmarked parcel sitting on the desk that should be occupied by Winchester. There are no indications as to whence it came or to whom it may be intended for. 

He peels back the butcher paper wrapping and gingerly opens the box to look within. The smell of it has him reeling back before he can collect himself enough to examine the contents more fully. Within lies what appears to be a cut up organ. He will have to call for surgeon Novak to determine which organ and whether it is of human origin. No, not Novak, for he is caring for Winchester for the time. Abberline sighs and yells for PC Fitzgerald to fetch one of the other doctors on call with the precinct. 

Tucked to the side of the box is a small slip of paper with writing on it. Careful not to sully his clean hands, Abberline removes the paper and lies it flat upon the desk. He places his reading spectacles on his nose and looks over the note with disgust.

It reads: 

_ From hell _

_ Mr W, _

_ Sor _

_ I send you half the Kidne I took from one women and prasarved it for you- _

_ tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. _

_ I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longer _

_ signed _

_ Catch me when you can Mishter W _

So. Whoever sent this is another claiming the status of Ripper. There have been so many false trails that Abberline has been forced to query after, all leading to naught but hoaxes and dead ends. This is new, however. None before has dared to send body parts! Once the doctor arrives and investigates the organ, Abberline suspects that it will truly be a human kidney, such as the note declares.

Abberline does not bother getting out the other notes that have arrived, for this one is particularly poor in the grammar and spelling, indicating that it was written by one who has had very little schooling. The others, while not elegant, were written with at least a small amount of proper language and penmanship knowledge. This parcel immediately feels like the first bit of real evidence Abberline has received outside of the crime scenes themselves.

When PC Garth Fitzgerald arrives at Bethlem, he is disgusted that they are holding a viewing of the inmates to a group of scoffing genteel. It is a common occurrence for the well-to-do to pay a pretty penny to be allowed access so they may point and laugh at the poor unfortunates housed within the asylum. But it is a practice that Garth feels no honest man should partake in, and he must silently hold in his frustration.

He is led to an office with an attached exam room filled with all sorts of strange medical implements. It is vaguely reminiscent of the old torture dungeons one can see replicated at Madame Tussauds waxworks at Marylebone. There is a chair with head and wrist harnesses, a set of manacles secured to the far wall, directly above a drain in the floor--which Garth suspects is used to hold patients down when they must be cleaned, if cleaning is something they even do here--and there are several dirty looking exam tables and chairs, some of which are tilted at peculiar angles and connect to ankle harnesses. He does not wish to know what _ those _ devices are used for!

Upon first glance, everything seems tidy and in its designated place. There are a few scattered pieces of paper along Samuel’s desk, all seeming to be notes on his latest autopsy results. None of it makes a lot of sense to Garth, seeing as he has no medical knowledge outside of what he must learn in his role as a police constable. 

He begins to go through the drawers of the desk. There are medical supplies in varying degree of antiquity, some looking to be so old and rusted that they may very well be from the days of Queen Elizabeth. Other than there being a lot of outdated tools, nothing looks to be particularly suspicious in the office and exam room. But something seems off about the desk. It looks as if it should have a greater amount of drawer space than what is visible when opened.

Garth sets to rapping his knuckles against the bottom of one particularly shallow looking drawer. This one should be able to hold twice the items it currently houses. And lo and behold, in the middle, the bottom makes a hollow sound as he taps, indicating a false bottom. He knows he should be humble, but he finds himself filling with pride at his clever observation. He removes the items stored within and then lifts the extra piece of wood to find a small stack of files and journals.

With wide and eager eyes, Garth removes the papers and sits down at the desk to start going through it all. His eyes darken and a scowl takes hold of his normally smiling face as he reads the horrid words before him. He comes to the conclusion that Samuel Winchester was a very deranged man and would have fairly benefitted from a stay at his own asylum. He tucks a few pieces of notes aside, then gathers the rest of the incriminating evidence together to deliver to Abberline. But he must first make a stop at the Novak residence to question Castiel about some of the damning things he has read. 

It is early afternoon when there is knocking at Castiel’s front door. Dean has been awake long enough to drink some tea and eat a few spoonfuls of porridge, simply shrugging when Castiel inquired if there was anything Dean wanted. He is now resting in the parlour, puffing idly away at an opium pipe and attempting to put his nerves and melancholia into a state of rest for a time. And so when Castiel goes to the door, he is grateful to see the familiar face standing there. Perhaps it will do good for Dean to try and speak with someone other than Castiel, even if the PC is here on official business.

“Good day, Fitzedmond! Please, come inside.”

The young constable nods in greeting and stutters out a response. “Uh. It’s Fitzgerald, sir.”

Castiel ignores being corrected and leads the man into the parlour after taking his coat and hanging it on the foyer chair. “Dean, we have company. Are you up for a visitor?”

Dean shrugs and does not move his eyes where they rest upon the mantle across from where he is seated. 

Castiel seats Fitzedmond-or-Gerald and goes to the kitchen to make another pot of tea. When he comes back to the parlour he can hear the young man murmuring softly to Dean, who smiles sadly in response. “You did the right thing, Mr. Winchester. We all know this to be true.” 

Castiel enters the room and sets the teapot in a cozy on the centre of the table, placing small jars of milk and sugar next to the pot, and motions for Fitz-something to help himself. Once the tea is poured, Fitz-something looks to Castiel and clears his throat. “Perhaps we should have a few private words, Mr. Novak. I don’t want to upset the detective inspector, but I do have to ask a few questions in regards to some notes that I have found.”

“Very well, Fitz- um, what do you go by amongst friends?” Castiel stands and gestures for the PC to follow him to the kitchen. Dean continues his intense study of the mantel, seemingly oblivious of the two men leaving the room.

“Garth. Call me Garth.”

“And you may call me Cas.”

Garth smiles wide and in his mirth, his country lilt is especially noticeable. “Okay then, Cas!” They both take a seat at the small table set within the kitchen as Garth retrieves a neat stack of notes and journals from a satchel he has brought with him. 

“I was at Bedlam just now and had a look through Samuel’s office and I found some things of interest.” He slides the packages of notes towards Castiel. “I would like to verify a few things written in here to be sure of the validity of these ramblings.” Garth clears his throat and diverts his eyes to the table, suddenly looking incredibly embarrassed. “Cas, tell me true. Are you and the inspector… coupled?”

Castiel freezes. Sam’s private journals. Of course there would be mention of what he saw behind Balthy’s, but the real question is what else has Sam written? He was dead set on finding some proof that Castiel was more than just deviant, but also a violent butcher of women. What did Sam write in there?

Castiel glances down at the stack of papers and leatherbound journals. Is is beneficial to admit or deny at this time? He has never been good at coming up with a lie, especially not when put on the spot like he is now, so the truth is what Garth shall receive. He nods his head in the affirmative.

“It is true. Sam happened upon us when we were lost to the opium and hadn’t a care to be discreet. It has been a foolish endeavor, for while we may not hang for it these days, we would both surely be arrested and lose our gainful employment should we be caught. Now it seems our fates are in your hands.”

Garth puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and gives a little squeeze. “I must preface this to tell you that I am not of that persuasion. But if I were, I know there is no better man. You take good care of him, sir, and it is obvious how very much you care. You don’t have to worry about Abberline; I have already removed the incriminating notes from the stack there.” 

Garth pulls a few extra notes out of an inside pocket and tosses them to Cas. “Now I can’t be certain that that is all of the mentions, but it is certainly the most obvious of them. If anyone else should find your secret within the pages here, I will do my best to support you in this matter.” The young man clears his throat again, and again looks uncomfortable.

“That was the easy part to tell.” He shakes his head. “Now, I haven’t read extensively yet, but it seems to me that Sam had come down with quite the obsession with his brother. What does he do, who is he with, where does he go? Seems he was following him, or having others follow him nearly all times of the day. I’m sure they've seen some things that would make my poor mother weep--we all know the inspector’s reputation with the harlots around here, after all.” Garth looks to Castiel and must see the discontent there, and his eyes widen momentarily as he continues hurriedly. “Sorry, sir. Don’t mean to bring all that up to cause hurts, but it’s necessary.”

“Go on, then.” Castiel opens the cover of a leather bound journal and starts scanning the page as Garth continues. “I’m listening.”

“That’s not the worst bit… He doesn’t outright admit to anything--at least not that I’ve read yet--but he heavily implies that he had taken care of some of the tarts he found particularly loathsome: the ones the inspector had his romps with. And if I’m remembering the words correctly, he writes, ‘I have sent little cards and secret things to rile the good boys (and my brother) at Lemen Street’. I think he done sent in some of those disturbing letters. The ones calling himself ‘Jack’. He also mentions Miss Catherine Eddows by name and refers to her missing kidneys. Even if he didn’t do the killing, he is surely responsible for some of the mutilations and missing parts. I don’t know, there’s still a lot to sift through.” 

Castiel has to hold in a small gasp at this. He knew Sam was deranged, albeit due to what Castiel suspects to be late-stage tertiary syphilis, but the Whitechapel butcher? The disease should have given him issues with coordination, surely not given him the strength to slice those women open so thoroughly! Castiel puts a hand to his face and scrubs over his skin with an open palm. He leaves the hand covering his face, leaving only his eyes to be seen by the other man, and leans heavily with his elbow to the table. His other hand taps idly at the open journal beneath him.

Both men are so absorbed in the other’s presence that they do not see Dean standing in the archway to the kitchen. “Sam was the ripper? He says so in his diary?” Dean looks stricken and angry, and a green tinge changes his pale, freckled skin into such a sickly shade that Castiel fears the man may vomit where he stands. 

Garth begins to speak as Castiel stands up and walks to Dean. “Shit. Mr Winchester, sir! Well, he doesn’t outright confess within his notes, but he does imply such things…”

Castiel places his hand on Dean’s shoulder, but the man shrugs it off and steps back. “Don’t touch me!” And with that, he spins around and leaves the room. Moments later Castiel can hear the front door slamming shut as Dean flees the house. This does not bode well. Dean is in no shape to be running about on his own--who knows what careless things he may act out in his fit? But Castiel does not chase after him. If Dean needs a moment to himself, then he shall receive it, even against Castiel’s better judgement and desire to care for the man.

Dean feels overloaded, overwhelmed, and simply over it all. He does not know what it is he sees when he looks to his reflection these days. Is he man or monster? He sees his youthful face start its change into the withered look of the aged, the look that comes to men who have lived too much. Dean can see the change taking place, morphing his features, as if his face is chiseling itself into some new wicked form that is yet to be determined, but will surely be hideous in the end. It is quite frightening to behold. 

When he overhears PC Fitzgerald speaking of his brother, a bubbling rage centers itself at his core. Sam was slipping into madness, it was undeniable, but it is a far easier thing to deny the evidence and continue believing that it was a quirk of personality, and not that his brother could have been doing these horrid things--things that centered around Dean. Could Sam be capable of such butchery? Was his art crafted with clear purpose and dark intent?

But not all centered around Dean, for Castiel has been in the middle of these things, as well. Sam’s fascination with the man had surely caused some of his own delerium to manifest. He thought Castiel was a killer, after all, and was quite obsessed with the notion. Could it not have pushed him over that precarious edge? Made him act out these sick fantasies? Perhaps. Perhaps not. The first to be ripped--Martha Tabram and Mary Ann Nichols--had been slain before Sam and Cas were introduced. It is something for Dean to think upon. 

When Castiel places a concerned hand to his shoulder, Dean can take no more. He feels a sudden and overwhelming resentment toward the man. Had they not done dark and strange things whilst in the throes, Sam would not have had reason to attack. He shoves off of the man and turns to grab his frock coat from the foyer stand. He has to leave and take some idle time to himself. He is grateful that Castiel allows him to go without fuss.

And so he finds himself at Ten Bells. To be in such familiar surroundings puts his mind at ease (or as much ease as he can muster). It is crowded with early dinner patrons and many fine women selling their wares. It is comforting. Dean manages a charming smile as he slides himself next to a woman not much younger than himself and makes a proper introduction. She is called Mary Jane and has a residence not far from the Ten Bells. Dean buys her drinks and eventually follows her home.

He cannot help but speculate that if Sam were truly the ripper, then this woman could have been in grave peril simply for entertaining his whims. But no longer. Dean still does not fully believe this hearsay, this awful claim that his brother could be the ripper. But if it is so, this girl should remain safe in his company, for now there is no one to kill her--lest Dean finds himself tipping back into that dark and quiet place where he remembers little to naught. But he does not concern himself on that thought. He cannot or he will quite assuredly go mad.

Dean spends the better part of two days in her company, and pays her well with some of the money he had squirreled away. Mary Jane doesn’t seem to mind the sudden intrusion into her life and Dean is glad he does not have to seek out further company. 

He spends a good portion of those two days taking in large quantities of medicinal cocaine. It makes his emotions die away until all he feels is a slow and half-hearted enthusiasm. It is in the spaces when the drug wears off that he cannot catch his breath and feels like the world may crush him. He takes to direct insufflation of the medicine and does not bother with tinctures. It crosses the blood brain barrier fastest this way and gives immediate relief. 

Medicating in such a way has its side effects, though. And perhaps it is the combination of the medicine and his grief, but in his two days with Mary Jane, he has not gotten stiff, no matter the care and attention she has visited upon him. His truncheon simply cannot be called to rise. This she seems not to mind, either. It is likely a nice reprieve from the demands of her profession.

Dean has suggested that they run off to the countryside to be wed and quit the city life. Mary Jane had nodded her head and smiled widely when Dean brought up the notion. Even if they are perfect strangers to each other, she is a charming enough lass and he is certain that it would be a simple and easy enough thing to forget his unsavory characteristics should he run off with the girl. Just because he is in love with a man does not mean he is destined to be a buggerer and deviant his whole life. 

They are sitting at the Ten Bells when Castiel finds him. Dean’s heart flutters for a moment, then stutters closed. Castiel or his brother. The two men he loves most in the world. Dean knows he should not be so angry with Cas, and he knows that if he had let him die, he would be feeling the same bitter resentment towards Sam. But he cannot help but be angry--at fate, at the damned city and its “moral decency laws”, at Castiel, at everything and everyone. 

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel’s gruff voice sends a shiver down Dean’s spine and he thinks he must need another dose of his medicine soon lest he become a weak pile of mush at Cas’ feet, begging for forgiveness yet again. He wants to be left alone until he can not love the man as he does. 

He does his best to not look forlorn and puts on a false smile for Cas, greeting him as if he is an old friend and nothing more. “Heya Cas! Have you met Mary Jane? We’re to be married next week.” If the news does anything to upset Castiel, he is a master of hiding away his thoughts, for he does not even blink at the news. 

Cas does not spare a glance to Mary Jane and does nothing to acknowledge her presence other than a slight nod of his head in her direction. “Very well. But I am here about a funeral. Amelia has been left with all the arrangements since you have apparently quit all responsibility of the matter. I know it has been quite rough on you, Dean, and I understand you wanting to be alone right now, so I shan't be long with you.” Castiel pauses and sighs before continuing. “Amelia has been less than happy with taking the burden all to herself. She needs you. Please attend to her.”

Castiel slides a piece of paper to Dean with the time and place of Sam’s funeral scrawled elegantly across the page. Castiel has always had such a beautiful hand, so flowing and well practiced. Nothing at all like his own choppy script. 

“At the very least, you should attend the funeral, as I’m sure you have no intentions to truly see Amelia beforehand.” There is an unspoken “childish, selfish, incusiant brat” that Dean swears he can hear in the brief silence, though he knows Castiel would never say such a thing. He is always patient and never has been one for name-calling. He truly is perfect in Dean’s eyes. It makes Dean feel all the more flawed.

He forgets himself as Castiel begins to walk away with a “Goodbye, Dean,” that sounds far too final. 

Dean reaches out a hand and grabs him by the shoulder. “Wait!”

Castiel turns to face him, something hopeful shining in his clear, blue eyes that makes Dean feel like that weak puddle of mush he was fearing when Cas first entered. But Dean looks around and sees the packed room, sees Mary Jane looking curiously at the two of them. Too many eyes are suddenly upon them; his outburst seems to have drawn the attention of the crowd. “Shit. I… don’t. Please.” Dean has no idea what he is trying to say and he can feel the effects of the medicinal cocaine slipping away from him. He isn’t sure if he will be able to breathe in such a space as he is in. 

Castiel squeezes his shoulder, a simple gesture of camaraderie that would not seem out of sorts to the crowd around them should anyone take note of the exchange. He leans in and quietly tells Dean, “There is always a place for you by my side, should you find yourself in need of me. Come home when you are ready and I will take care of you.”

And then the man is gone and Dean feels so very alone in that moment. His brother is dead and he is not with Castiel as he should be, and both of these things are all on Dean’s hands. His shoulders sag in the burden of that knowledge. If he hadn’t fucked things up time and again, everything would be wonderful and happy and Sam could be alive. Dean is cursed, and that too is no one’s fault but his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Victorian Lexicon:
> 
> “she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid tumble” = she was so drunk, she passed out during sex.
> 
> Tuppence = a twopenny coin. Twelve pennies per shilling, 20 shillings per pound
> 
> Take the egg = win
> 
> Half-shot = drunk  
Knacker = one who collects animal carcases and renders their parts into by-products for other industries
> 
> PC = police constable
> 
> Carman = one who drives a horse drawn cart
> 
> Tart = prostitute
> 
> Toffer = prostitute 
> 
> “prodigious engine” = penis
> 
> Posteriors = rear end
> 
> Dollymop = prostitute (part time, and not professional)
> 
> Dunny = toilet
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute
> 
> Aproner = bartender (also can be used to refer to general tradesmen)
> 
> Squiffed = drunk
> 
> Blootered = drunk
> 
> Section house = the mandated housing for the metropolitan police force (Dean would share his house with at least 6 other PCs, detectives, or investigators from H Division)
> 
> Truncheon = penis 
> 
> Madge = vagina
> 
> Bunter: Prostitute (low class beggar) 
> 
> Braces: suspenders 
> 
> Niminy-piminy: Gay man
> 
> Unnameables: underpants
> 
> "Mind the grease": Said in lieu of “excuse me” when walking through a crowd or trying to pass someone.
> 
> Carriwitchet: conundrum; puzzle
> 
> Mug: asshole; jerk
> 
> Perpendicular: when the pub is so crowded you must eat your dinner standing up.
> 
> Lobcock: flaccid dick
> 
> Nerves: panic disorder and anxiety 
> 
> Morbs: A bout temporary depression
> 
> Melancholia: A long term, severe depression


	7. October 19- November 8,1888

Dean should know better than to read the daily papers when he is feeling such as he is: dark, discontent, sad, and overly medicated. Unhinged. Castiel’s visit earlier in the day has done nothing to help his mood. 

There are multiple headlines regarding Sam. PRIME SUSPECT IN WHITECHAPEL MURDERS IS SLAIN. Dean does not pay attention to the libelous words he knows to be within. His name is surely marked by now, as the press love nothing better than to feed off the misfortunes of others. He continues reading only to find that there have been a series of arsons directed at Jewish immigrants, displacing them from home and shop, left with nought but the pennies in their pockets.

Dean feels a surge of righteous rage at this and vows to hunt down the rascals responsible. He fears it will be more of the Irish hooligans he has had his eyes on for years. Even without his warrant card, Dean knows he is still capable of investigating these things. He will just have to make a point of keeping his intent hidden.

He feels resigned to the fact that he has done murder, and decides to embrace this dark ability he has found in himself. He is on a mission to end the persecution, even if that means he must persecute the rest of the inhabitants of London in the process. 

He kisses Mary Jane goodbye and sets out for vengeance. He is of a mind to right all the wrongs visited upon the Jewish immigrants of the city. They are his people, after all, even if Sam continuously denied it.

Castiel knew Dean would not be in a place to visit with Sam’s widow, Amelia, and so he personally went to see her and to offer his assistance with any further arrangements. It is a long day of easing her sorrow and calling on solicitors to attend to the last of Sam’s affairs. But he is willing to help ease the burden. Not for Amelia’s sake, but for Dean’s. She does not care what his intentions are, though. She is only grateful for the assistance.

It is nearing dusk when Castiel decides to take the long way home and stops off at Leman street to offer assistance to the PCs on duty. He does not need to do this, for he is on leave in order to attend Dean in his time of need. But with the man frolicking about with his tart, it seems Castiel finds himself with a want to occupy his mind. The PC on duty hands him a list of people waiting in queue for autopsy--victims of gang wars, it seems--and that any help with the case would be of great assistance. 

He slips the list into his coat pocket and leaves to walk towards the morgue. The coroner would likely still be there, though he has a new assistant that can pick up some of the slack while Castiel is away. Regardless, he knows his assistance will be a boon. 

He is several blocks from Leman, heading north towards Spitalfields when he spots Dean walking with a determined gait. His eyes are focused straight ahead, at some pauper walking up through the crowds. He instantly feels his gut tumble, for he believes he knows what Dean is about. Castiel may not be as clever to all the cues of human body language as Sam had been, but he is certain that this is Dean on a hunt. Is there to be another dead body at day’s end? 

Castiel stalks the stalker, careful not to be seen as Dean follows the pauper ahead of him. Dean is not careful about concealing his presence the way Castiel is, but with the crowd of people still milling about the street, he is easy enough to miss by the man taking the lead. 

Castiel nearly loses Dean several times, but finally comes across him in a secluded back alley. London has its twists and turns and is quite the labyrinth of streets and alleys, so despite the bustle of the main roads, the dark corners where nefarious deeds may occur are in abundance. 

Castiel’s suspicions are confirmed. Dean was on the hunt. Who was this poor fool that had crossed Dean? What were his crimes? Was he deserving? Castiel watches in fascination as Dean stabs the man repeatedly, holding him upright by his chin as his other hand strikes out like a serpent with one razor sharp fang. Castiel should not condone murder of any kind, but it is blood-spattered that he thinks Dean is at his most beautiful. 

Castiel waits until the body slumps to the ground and Dean has dropped to his knees, staring blankly at the crumbling brick wall, before he approaches slowly. His voice is gentle and soothing as he speaks. “Dean? Come away from there, now. Let’s get you home and cleaned up.” 

Dean looks up at Castiel with sad eyes. “Cas?”

“Yes, Dean. Come along, now.” He gently places his hands on Dean, guiding him to stand up. He takes the leather gloves from his own hands and urges Dean to put them on in an effort to hide the blood. They are both lucky the coats they wear are black and can obscure the evidence of the crime done, leaving the casual observer none the wiser. 

Dean slides the gloves over his blood-sticky hands and pockets his folding knife. He tucks his arm into Cas’ elbow and they start the trek back to Limehouse. Dean says nothing on the way and stares blankly at their feet. Castiel does not push the man to speak.

Dean does not say much until it is time to prepare for the funeral two days later. He supposes he is lucky that Castiel happened across him when he did, for if it was not for him, Dean would have surely been found by another. He does not feel guilt for taking the lout’s life, but he feels remorse at the loss of self he feels. Dean is sure he is not who he should be, though who that is, Dean cannot say. Certainly not some killer out for vengeance, some sick fiend who loses his mind and cuts down his enemies with brutal efficiency. And the tart--the woman, Liz Stride, whose neck he sliced so carelessly in his drunken fugue. Samuel, his dearest kin who has ever been beside him these twenty-some years, now dead and rotting, waiting to be buried and forgotten. Whoever Dean is supposed to be is surely lost to him now. The thought makes him sad.

Dean stares at his reflection as Castiel fusses with his collar. He recognizes himself less and less each time he happens upon his image. “Who are you?” he whispers.

Castiel speaks softly to him, and Dean can hear the care and affection in his voice. “Are you ready, love?” Dean blinks. Love. Quaint.

“I suppose I am as ready as I can be. Has the rain quit?” He glances idly out the window to find the common gloom of London, though no rain seems to be falling for the time being.

“Yes, I believe so. Come, let us get to the cemetery.” Castiel kisses his cheek ever so gently, then takes him by his hand and leads him out of the house. There is a carriage waiting for them out on the cobbled street and the two men enter silently. It is not a time for discussion, but deep reflection. Castiel seems to feel this way, too.

It takes half of an hour to arrive at the gates of Highgate cemetery, where Amelia and several of Sam’s friends and coworkers are already gathered. The ceremony is not due to start for another 15 minutes, though Dean suspects Amelia would have liked him there sooner to help greet the guests who have arrived. It is not something he is up for, though, and so he does his best to hide behind Castiel, the way a small child would when seeking comfort from an adult during a fit of the scares. He does not want to mingle.

Amelia approaches and Castiel turns around to get Dean out from under him and urges him forward to speak with the woman. He must look an awful sight, trying to tuck himself within Castiel’s coat to avoid the milling goodfolk who have come to pay respects. Despite the newspaper headlines and rumours of Sam’s involvement in the Ripper murders, there are still a surprising number of people in attendance. Dean supposes he should be grateful that not all believe such horrid things of his brother, even if he himself is in doubt.

“Dean.” Amelia greets him coldly with steel in her beautiful brown eyes. “How good of you to show yourself.”

Dean does not know what to say and can only look at her sheepishly, hoping that she is at least somewhat gentle in her inevitable chastisement. He truly is a small child. And despite his far superior height, the woman before him terrifies him. Dean reaches back to clutch at Castiel. The man puts a comforting hand on his back and keeps him in place. Amelia is someone he must face.

“Good Castiel has pulled your weight for you in this sad affair…” Amelia shakes her head in anger, sadness, all-out upset at Dean. “You are his brother! How could you so carelessly take his life? He could have been subdued! That is, if your statement of ‘self-defence’ can even be believed, which I for one have my doubts. And you have done _ nothing _ to stop the spread of the filthy rumours surrounding his death! Jack the Ripper?! Bah! He was no such thing and your silence in the matter has only further damned his name!”

She continues yelling at him with little pause for breath, but Dean can no longer focus on the words. He knows what she says is true, for it is nothing he has not said to himself, constantly no less, for the past several days. She deserves this outlet for venting her sadness and anger, for she has lost a good husband this week.

He must have been obvious in his lack of attention to the words Amelia speaks for a slap lands solidly across his face. It stings and the sound seems to echo across the graveyard, making all turn their heads to bear witness to this unhappy exchange. Dean puts a hand to his face and looks to the ground. “I am so sorry.” And that is all he can say.

Dean does not pay attention to the funeral or the words people say of Sam. He is sure there is a mix of emotions involved, for not all in attendance would believe his brother innocent of all things he is accused of. But it is not something that Dean hears. He does not hear the words of the priest, he does not notice as the pall bearers lever the casket down into the earth, and he does not participate in throwing a handful of dirt into the fresh grave.

When the funeral is over, Castiel begins to guide Dean back to the waiting coach. DI Abberline has watched the affair from a short distance and approaches the two men on their way out. “I know this is a hard time for you Dean, so you take as much time as you need to clear your head. But I would like you to know that I have put you up for official commendations with the Home Office. They have agreed to have you reinstated for your efforts of eliminating the threat of the Whitechapel Ripper. Perhaps it is too soon to bring this up, but I thought you should know that you are welcome back at work whenever you see fit. I hear they are making an award plaque in your name to be hung on the wall of H division.” 

Abberline pats Dean’s shoulder, then lets them pass and head to their carriage, Dean nodding his acknowledgement with brief eye contact as they go. “Thank you, sir.” Abberline was correct: this was not the time to call him a hero for slaying his own kin. He would like to someday go back to work, but it may take him some time to get over all this death--if it is something to be gotten over at all. 

After a week of constant care from Castiel, Dean is able to convince the man that he is fit enough to be left alone for a while each day, and so Castiel returns to work with the coroner in an on-call capacity. Castiel has become almost overbearing in his doting upon Dean, and even though he still feels his fits coming upon him, they seem to be manageable enough for the time without the constant fuss from the other man.

Because he is a creature of habit, as soon as Castiel leaves to do a few hours of work, Dean finds himself again at Ten Bells. Mary Jane has not been pleased that he has been gone for the week without notice or concern for her part. He feels guilt over upsetting her, and though does not truly wish to be with her, he can still picture a normal life, tucked away on some country hillside with a cottage and wife with kids running wild in the yard. But then the pictures flash to sharing that same cottage with Cas, being free to be who they are with no concern for the outside world. Dean is torn: to be happy, or to be normal? He supposes there is a certain happiness that comes with normality, albeit nothing like the true and unbridled freedom his life with Castiel could have. 

He apologises to Mary Jane by buying her a drink and some lunch, though Ten Bells is crowded with the workman on their breaks, so they must take a perpendicular against the bar. It is a nice and hearty Yorkshire pudding, though the meat has been cooked to be tough and hard to chew. It is something to focus on rather than what he should do with Mary Jane. He concludes he should at least spend some time with her over the next week or so to determine if he really can settle with the girl. 

He spends the next several days with her in her little run down hovel in Spitalfields. Dorset street is not a particularly nice place, but it is barely more than an alley and offers a fair amount of privacy. Though it seems the privacy is not entirely needed, as Dean still cannot get up for the woman no matter the coaxing or the wondrous things Mary Jane knows how to do with her mouth. It seems he is not fit to be with the woman, though he desperately tries.

Dean is curious if he would have the same issues if it were Castiel’s mouth upon him. The man had not tried to worm his way inside of Dean’s posteriors since Sam’s death, and so Dean couldn’t say. He closes his eyes and pictures Castiel, his soft lips kissing his belly as strong, firm, demanding hands hold his legs apart. He imagines Castiel’s clever fingers and how they always seem to find that electric place deep inside of Dean, making him writhe and scream and arch his back like some wanton whore. Dean can feel himself growing firm at the fantasy, and now knows he is truly fucked. He will never escape the man, even should he run off and never return.

“There’s our good soldier springin’ ta action!” Mary Jane meant well by the jest, but her voice ruined the small amount of progress he had made. It wasn’t a bad voice--on the contrary, it was quite sweet, in fact. But what he wanted to hear was gravel and gruff. Her voice, sadly, did nothing to send shivers up his spine the way Castiel could do, simply by saying Dean’s name. 

“Well, shit. I spoke too soon. What’s the problem wif ya, anyway? Ya nancy or somefin’?” Mary Jane pulls off his poor lobcock with a sigh and rolls to the side, resting a lazy arm across Dean’s chest. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never had this problem before. I think it must be all the stress from work and my brother’s death. I assure you it has nothing to do with you. You are quite lovely, Mary.”

It strikes Dean then that she shares a name with his mother. It has been so many years since he has thought of the woman, but now he feels that perhaps she has sent Mary Jane to look after him. The young woman could surely do as good a job as Cas at taking care of his needs. Dean renews his determination to be better; to be normal. If only he could get Castiel out of his mind.

Dean spends another day with Mary Jane, but there is this invisible force, an irresistible pull that brings him back to Castiel’s doorstep. Dean idly notes that he is spattered in blood again, the crimson stains upon his clothes that remind him he is now a killer. It is not sweet Mary Jane, however, that spatters his fine coat and slacks, and he is grateful for that, at least.

As his feet had brought him closer to Limehouse and away from Spitalfields, Dean spotted the errant soul he believes to be the culprit behind many of the antisemitic vandalisms in the slums. Another hooligan that Dean felt so righteous in cutting down. It was a small matter to him, but one that felt right and good. Surely, should he be caught in the act, he would be commended for this murder, too. Abberline would see it as just.

When Castiel opens the door, his blue eyes are wide in his surprise to see Dean, then a sudden smile of utmost joy graces his wonderful face. “Dea…”

Castiel does not finish saying his name, for Dean cannot help but to shove through the door and kiss the man. Normality be damned in this moment, for this is where he is meant to be. Castiel opens up to him immediately and Dean can hear the sound of ripping fabrics in their haste to join together. He is aroused almost immediately, and it truly sinks in to Dean that he is spoilt now forever for coupling with stray women. 

Castiel does not seem to mind that Dean is sullying his clean clothing with the blood of a dead man--Dean knows he has noticed. But then, when has it ever bothered Cas to find Dean in such a state? The clothes are practically torn to bits by the time they are removed, so he supposes it is only an idle thought, anyway. Who cares about blood stains when the garments are thoroughly ruined by tearing hands? 

Dean expects their romp to have the same violence and ferociousness as usual, but Castiel is unexpectedly gentle and sweet once they are both in the nude and sprawled across his bed, acting as if every part of Dean is something to be worshipped. It makes Dean feel things, and he is not sure he is comfortable with the kindness. If it is sweet and wonderful and such a thing that Dean will always want, then the act is surely sealing his fate. 

Everything up to this point has been primal and full of the need to fulfill some twisted fantasy or another. Blood and bruises should accompany this act, for it is how they behave together. Dean quite fully revels in the pleasure that pain gives him, but now he finds that he feels only the pleasure, feels cherished and loved. It isn’t right. This isn’t fucking.

When they are both spent and panting, Castiel leans in to give him the softest of kisses and murmurs against his lips, “I love you so much.”

Dean’s response is to scrunch up his face and sob. It is too much. He has been so very wicked of late, and it is a sudden realisation to Dean that he feels he should be punished. Castiel should be ripping him to shreds, not giving such fuss and care. And so he must punish himself if Castiel will not do it for him. “I don’t think we should do this again.” 

Castiel’s face falls, and Dean feels his own heart shattering into jagged little splinters. But it is the right thing to do, and so Dean only allows himself a moment longer of the sadness, then steels himself to leave for good.

Over the following week, Dean goes back on his statement utterly and completely. He tries very hard to stay with Mary Jane and repeatedly tells himself that it is right. But he continues to find himself in Castiel’s bed, over and over. He cannot stay away. It seems the only thing he can do is remove himself from temptation completely. 

And so on the 5th of November, as he and Mary Jane are watching the pyrotechnics display over the Thames, Dean brings up the topic of leaving London. “Where would you like to go? Anywhere in the world; the sky's the limit.”

Mary Jane looks at him with lazy affection. He has said several times that they should marry and leave, but it has all been idle words up to this point. It doesn’t seem she takes it as anything more than that, but graciously responds to the whimsy she believes it to be. “Oh, I’ve fam in Glastonbury that would be real nice ta see. But if I’m really bein’ true, I fink I’d like ta see New York a bit.” She rests her soft cheek against her hand and leans into the bridge with a fond smile, as if daydreams dance behind her kind eyes.

New York. Glastonbury would be close. If he ever wanted to see Castiel again, that would be the safer option. But the point of this whole ridiculous farce was to remove himself from the deviant urges. Mary Jane is a sweet little doll in her heart, and she deserves to be treated as something more than a distraction, and that is all she would be if Dean were to stay so close. All it would take is a short train ride to be back to Limehouse and Castiel’s bed. New York. It had promise.

“I think I should like to wrap up my affairs in this city and leave forthwith. Can you be ready to leave in four days? I think that should be ample to set my own affairs in order.”

Mary Jane’s eyes light up brighter than the pyrotechnics. Dean should feel warmed in his heart at her excitement to leave and be with him. But he does not. It is curious, but in that moment Dean hates her. She represents everything that he cannot have, what the world deems appropriate, and he is now trapped in some sort of limbo for all eternity. He smiles brightly at Mary Jane and gives her a small kiss on the forehead. He truly hates her. 

Two days before it is time for them to depart for New York, Dean heads to Castiel’s house. He cannot leave without saying goodbye, even though he knows he should. He had written a note to drop off for the man, but thought better of leaving it without handing it off in person. It would only leave both of them reeling in the bittersweet pangs of this final farewell and have none of the closure they would need to move on fully. 

Dean still did not want to do this. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to take Castiel on that ship, and not Mary Jane. But if a normal life is what he truly sought, then Dean had no other option to him. 

Castiel does not greet him with a smile. His eyes are shadowed and dull, lacking in their usual intensity. Perhaps Dean should not be here after all. But then Castiel steps back and motions Dean inside with a casual sweep of his hand, and so Dean steps within, the note clutched tightly in his pocketed hand. 

“Why do you keep doing this, Dean? You come and you go and you cannot make your mind up to choose.” Castiel turns his back to Dean and walks into the parlour leaving Dean to either stand idly in the foyer or follow behind him. Dean hesitates, weighing whether or not it is a wise idea to be here, before following his bedfellow into the next room. 

Castiel continues speaking as he sits heavily on the settee. “Are you actually going to marry her, or are you just stringing the poor tart along like you seem to be always doing to me? I can’t take much more of this, Dean. I am too far fallen to take having a knife in my heart every other day. I should here on out refrain from all hope.”

It crushes Dean to hear these things. He has come to end things, and it sounds as if Castiel is prepared to do so first. Leaving is one thing, but being left is another affair entirely. Why should it matter, so long as it all ends? 

Dean feels his resolve weakening at the sorry state of his man. He slowly lowers himself to his knees in front of Castiel and places his hands on his knees. He is sincere as he can be in his response. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Cas. I want to be with you so very badly, but I don’t know how to stay. You are so good and I am a poor excuse for a human. You deserve so much more than I can give.”

“What about Mary Jane? Is she less deserving? If you think so poorly of yourself, why would you inflict yourself upon yet another?”

“Mary Jane has it rough. Even if I can never love her, what I have to offer is still better than she has.”

“You sound so pompous, yet suffer such self-loathing all the same. Such a contradiction, _ dear _ .” Castiel says the last part with such scorn in his voice that it makes Dean flinch. It sounds to Dean as if Castiel is saying, “Good. You _ should _ hate yourself,” even though Dean knows that Castiel would never think such a thing, let alone say it out loud. 

Dean feels the sudden urge to slap himself. His hand twitches and he has to put all of his willpower into not striking his own face. Castiel should be the one to do that. 

“I’m sorry.” Dean has been apologising an awful lot of late. Abberline seems to be the only one he has not disappointed, and that thought almost makes Dean laugh, for what does he care for Abberline? He is another upstanding man of Scotland Yard, ready to put Dean behind bars for the punishable crime of deviancy--it is silly he fears being put away not for murder, but for loving the wrong person. He wonders if his good standing and heroism should fall apart for the man should he know what Dean does behind closed doors. 

“Why are you here?” Castiel’s eyes burn straight through to Dean’s soul, as if the man can see the blackness swirling around the parts that yet remain light. 

Dean’s mouth works open and closed as he seeks for a response. He cannot say, “I came to say goodbye.” The words will not come to him and refuse to be spoken. Instead he foolishly replies with, “To make amends. I want to be good enough for you.” He really should leave. He wants to be normal. Even if the day comes that he feels he is good enough for Cas, he will still not be normal. And wasn’t that what this has all been about? Finding normality? At least, what normal life a killer such as himself can find.

But, despite having said he will not hope, Castiel’s eyes fill up with just that and Dean has to kiss the man for the faith he continues to place in Dean. As they kiss, Dean has a realisation that he has not had a fit of nerves since Sam’s funeral. Perhaps it is this crisis of melancholia and lack of identity he finds within himself that have soothed him of that burden. Or perhaps Castiel’s constant care and affection have done the trick for him. Either way, he finds no nerves attacking his wits for the time and he no longer feels the pull to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Victorian Lexicon:
> 
> “she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid tumble” = she was so drunk, she passed out during sex.
> 
> Tuppence = a twopenny coin. Twelve pennies per shilling, 20 shillings per pound
> 
> Take the egg = win
> 
> Half-shot = drunk  
Knacker = one who collects animal carcases and renders their parts into by-products for other industries
> 
> PC = police constable
> 
> Carman = one who drives a horse drawn cart
> 
> Tart = prostitute
> 
> Toffer = prostitute 
> 
> “prodigious engine” = penis
> 
> Posteriors = rear end
> 
> Dollymop = prostitute (part time, and not professional)
> 
> Dunny = toilet
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute
> 
> Aproner = bartender (also can be used to refer to general tradesmen)
> 
> Squiffed = drunk
> 
> Blootered = drunk
> 
> Section house = the mandated housing for the metropolitan police force (Dean would share his house with at least 6 other PCs, detectives, or investigators from H Division)
> 
> Truncheon = penis 
> 
> Madge = vagina
> 
> Bunter: Prostitute (low class beggar) 
> 
> Braces: suspenders 
> 
> Niminy-piminy: Gay man
> 
> Unnameables: underpants
> 
> "Mind the grease": Said in lieu of “excuse me” when walking through a crowd or trying to pass someone.
> 
> Carriwitchet: conundrum; puzzle
> 
> Mug: asshole; jerk
> 
> Perpendicular: when the pub is so crowded you must eat your dinner standing up.
> 
> Lobcock: flaccid dick
> 
> Nerves: panic disorder and anxiety 
> 
> Morbs: A bout temporary depression
> 
> Melancholia: A long term, severe depression


	8. November 8, 1888

“You spoke before of wanting to leave together. Find a cottage in the country and raise sheep. Would you still want to come away with me?”

Dean laughs and rolls onto his side to face Castiel. “We will have to find a butter churn.” He slides closer to kiss Cas, who is smiling so brightly it feels as if Dean’s eyes must melt from his face should he look much longer. He closes his eyes and becomes lost in the sensation of the other’s lips upon his.

Dean pictures the two of them secluded away from prying eyes, venturing out only for supplies and to sell their wares. It would be a good and simple life. Until they got caught, of course. Then there should be nothing simple about it. The more he thinks on it, the more he believes that perhaps it is not something they can pull off. It would be so obvious that they were deviant: Two attractive and young men, living together with no women calling to visit. 

Dean sighs and pulls away. “We would have to keep up appearances. Even secluded away, people would eventually find out our specific peculiarity, and then what would happen to us? I don’t want to come home one day to find you swinging from some makeshift gallows.”

Castiel’s face darkens and Dean thinks he knows the thoughts that run through the other’s mind. Dean is about to leave again, and this time for good. He is about to sit up and dress for the day when Castiel shoves him back down, pinning him with his powerful arms. “Stop, Dean. Just stop. Your mind can only dwell on the bad that may happen. But know that it may not. You and I do not have to be afraid of others. If they come at us, we will cut them down!” 

Dean shivers at the thought. Perhaps it is only a fantasy, but the point of leaving is to get away from himself. Whether it is with Mary Jane and he can be normal, or whether it is with Cas and he can be free, he wants--no, needs--to leave the nerves and melancholia and death all behind. And here is Cas saying that they should go off together and kill so they may remain deviant. Could he be so callous? Could either of them?

“I don’t know, Cas. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.” He tries to move out from under the man, but he is well and truly pinned.

“So you would refrain from hurting those that would persecute you, but you are fine with hurting me? The only person who knows all of your thoughts and your sins, yet still wants to love and protect you? Do you really think anyone else will accept you for who and what you are?” Castiel has never said such a harsh thing to him before, and so Dean feels it must be true. Perhaps Castiel is the only one who could love all of his darkness and light in equal measures. But what does that say about Cas then, if he’s so accepting of Dean’s myriad wicked flaws? Dean does not deserve such acceptance, anyway.

“I need to go. Please. I don’t want to, believe me! But it’s for the best.” He tries yet again to get up, but Castiel is having none of it.

“You belong here with me. There is no need to hide or pretend, together thee and me, we can just... _ be _.” 

Dean has always felt helpless against Castiel, so when the man tries to fuck him, Dean gives in, this one last time, to the pleasures he knows Castiel can bestow upon him. If he is sated and lax, perhaps it will be easier for Dean to steal away. He must harden his heart, collect his wife-to-be, and get on that goddamn boat. 

It isn’t so simple, though. They spend the afternoon going back and forth between idle chit chat and love making, Castiel seeming to be able to bounce back into fighting stance with little ado, his sword brandished and pointed at Dean. It seems Castiel is trying to make it so Dean cannot walk straight for days, a thing that Dean accepts vigorously. If this is their last time, it may as well count.

It is well into the afternoon when Dean finally frees himself from Castiel’s arms and slides into his torn clothing. He will have to make a point of wearing his coat closed tight to hide the evidence of what he has done with Castiel and the blood spatter from the night before.

It is with the deepest regret that Dean walks away from Cas. His mind has been torn between here and there, but he knows there really is no safe alternative for him. Dean must go. Cas jumps up and grabs his arm and spins him around before he can make it out of the bedroom. “Please, don’t do this,” the man implores.

But Dean has to close his eyes so as not to see the look on Castiel’s face, and shakes his head. “I think I have to leave. I’m sorry.” He shoves off from Castiel and runs down the stairs. If Castiel catches him, he may very well never leave, and so he must dash out the door like some lunatic, barely pausing to grab his coat on the way. 

Dean can hear Castiel calling out to him as he darts out the front door, and the solemn cries of, “Dean! DEAN!” hold such desperation that it causes him to feel sick. He has to force himself to ignore the cries and move his feet, those leaden blocks that fill his shoes.

He dons the frock and buttons up tight as he jogs down the street and does not pause for several minutes, not until he is far enough from Castiel’s row house that he feels he is safe to break. 

He cannot breathe. Dean feels a fit coming on that has the potential of putting all his prior fits to shame. The world spins around him, and not in its usual fashion. It moves too quickly. Dean’s vision turns to alternating shades of lime green and cloying pink and the faces of the milling folk around him morph into ungodly things with black eyes and leering maws. These beastly hellhounds stalk his peripheral vision, and he must constantly turn his head this way and that to keep them from moving closer. He shan’t be able to tell friend from foe in this sorry state and his hand itches to draw his blade to strike down the terrible demons around him. By some small mercy, Dean recognizes the vision for what it is--the nerves have become too strong and he must seek out medicines posthaste. 

Dean stumbles his way to the Limehouse chemist and buys a few Cannabis Indica cigarettes and a small vial of cocaine. He would prefer the heroine to soothe his nerves, but he cannot afford to be so relaxed just yet. On a second thought, he does end up buying some of the Bayer Heroin, incidentally, as Dean is sure he will need it for the boat ride to New York. Once he is aboard and they have set sail, the finality of the situation may just kill him without it. He immediately lights one of the cigarettes for his walk back to the section house, instant relief soothing out his overly tight muscles and allowing his weary mind to focus on the task at hand without sliding into further fits. The demon faces and stalking hellhounds evaporate in a drift of black smoke until his vision is what it ought to be again. 

Dean’s next stop really ought to be the docks to purchase two tickets to New York, but he doesn’t think this is something his fragile mind can tolerate in the moment, and so he saves that errand for last. Something tugs at him to put it off and Dean knows truly what it is. He should not have seen Castiel again. The profound bond they share has been renewed with each of Dean’s visits, with each romp in the man’s bed, with every slow and lazy kiss goodnight. The bond will not allow him to step foot near the docks and Dean can only hope that it has dissolved enough by the morning that he can continue on with this matter of running away. 

Instead, Dean heads straight to the section house. The first thing he grabs is the small trinket box from the mantle, the one the Hebrew family had given him as a token of thanks for saving them from the gang. He sits on the sofa and stares at it for a while. It represents some of the good he has done, but it also represents the lengths he has been willing to go to to cut down the rascalism in this godforsaken city.

He knows New York will not be better. He has heard rumors that it is even more crowded and the slums far more violent and crime-ridden. Rascalism indeed. And rumors aside, he read once that the storyteller Dickens had been there and stated outright that it was in a poor and dangerous state that was not fit for visit. 

Dean was not to find his idyllic cottage, tucked cozy away from the bustle of city life. He would, yet again, be forced to wade through the muck and ever have the temptation to cut it out at the heart with his little folding knife. It is a small thing, but seems more than adequate for the job thus far. He ought to buy a whet stone. Castiel told him he could not run from himself. Dean is beginning to believe that statement. 

Dean lights another Cannabis Indica cigarette and stays sat there for some time, letting his mind wander to all the things he will both lose and gain by running away. There seem to be so few gains on that small, mental list, but the one outweighs the many losses: freedom from the urges to be deviant. Sure, there will be a handsome fellow that may catch Dean’s eye from time to time, but he does not love the strangers, and so it should be a simple thing to quash the urges and lock them away to be hidden for all time. 

That gain does not ease his mind to any great extent. In fact, Dean feels all the regret and sadness in the world. He hates Mary Jane in this moment for agreeing to run off, and he hates that he feels he must do this thing. Above all, he finds a growing distaste for the world at large, for it is the common citizen who shuns and persecutes so readily. But he cannot cut out all their hearts, the way they have cut out his own. Can he? 

It is growing late by the time Dean stands and collects his other few meagre belongings--the sun has been set for several hours. One suitcase of important things--photographs and books, heirlooms and his father’s old ring--and one small duffel bag of clothes. In less than twenty minutes he is packed with everything he owns. He has never been one to collect much, but perhaps that was because there has always been a part of him that knew things would grow out of hand and he would feel forced to flee one day. But it is a sorry sight to behold. It is as if he is naught but a pauper with no means to buy nice things.

Dean knows he should not linger any longer and so it is with a soft sigh--and a hole in his heart approximately the size and shape of Castiel--that he sets off with his two meagre bags and takes his unhappy feet back to Spitalfields. 

And even though he plans to sail tomorrow, Dean has yet to purchase tickets. He will not step foot on the docks yet; he cannot. This unwanted bond still tugs at him to stay, and to stay away from the docks and all ocean-bound vessels. It tells him they will all be cursed to sow further seeds of discontent within his broken heart. He can wait a day. Surely they will have two spots available on some ship he can find on the morrow. He can even climb aboard as a worker, as they always take any able-bodied man without question. 

Dean resolves that tomorrow will be adequate, and so he heads north back to Spitalfields and back to Mary Jane. 

It takes him longer than it should to arrive to Dorset street. He has dawdled and lollygagged as long as he can. But now that he stands outside the door, he is hit with a horrible trepidation that threatens to take his feet from under his person. He leans his forehead against the rickety wood and fishes the cocaine from his coat pocket. He sets down his bags and puts a small dab on the flat of his skin between thumb and forefinger, then insufflates his medicine to soothe the nerves he can feel creeping back in, like some scurrying insects under his skin. He is immediately both soothed and invigorated.

Dean breathes in deep and stands up straight, steeling himself for the travels to come, then enters the hovel. What he sees is not what he expects.

Castiel is sat on the edge of the small bed. Mary Jane is laid out next to him on her back, head tilted to the side so Dean can see her face quite clearly. She appears to be sleeping at first glance, though Dean suspects Castiel has done something to her. The longer he looks, the more he can see that she has had her throat cut, the dark blood hidden beneath a dirty, off-white blanket. Dean finds it peculiar that he feels only relief and no sense of foreboding whatsoever.

Dean meets Castiel’s eyes and sees the determined, no-nonsense look the man is directing at him. He will not be allowed to play his uncoordinated, wishy-washy dance of ‘I love you but I can’t’ this evening. It seems that Castiel has made the final decision for him. 

“What have you done, Cas?” Dean blinks at the man several times trying to wrap his mind around the things that will surely come to pass. The images of what-is-to-be slip and slide through his head and he cannot seem to grasp a single one. Perhaps the future cannot be seen at this time, even in imagination. 

Castiel stands and crosses the room to box Dean in against the rickety wooden door. It takes him all of three long strides, for the room is quite small. “I told you. You belong with me. It seems you have forced my hand again.”

Again. That means…

“You… It was you all along.” Dean’s voice is barely more than a whisper and his eyes widen in shock. “You ripped all those women apart.”

Castiel’s face softens and the glow of twelve thousand suns emanates from his face. He smiles a smile only for Dean. And though he ought to feel sickened at the knowledge that Castiel has been responsible for so many twisted mutilations, Dean feels himself melting under that gaze. The blood should bother him--losing poor Mary Jane in such a manner should bother him-- but all he can feel is a resigned commitment. He is with Cas. He loves the man and that must make him mad as a hatter, mad as a ripper. He should scream out and cry and resist this cruel turn of fate that he should be wed in all but name to the Whitechapel Ripper. 

“I had to, Dean. You lowered yourself to the level of such base creatures when you should be elevated and praised by mightier things. Praised by me.”

Dean cannot begin to wonder--or understand--why Castiel thinks so much of him that he would go out and murder the poor tarts he has spent his time with. They were only distractions. 

One question lingers with Dean. Not “Why?”, or “How could you?”--these things do not matter to Dean. What comes out of his mouth is, “Did not Sam confess to the crimes in his journals?” His eyebrows scrunch in a display of confusion. Abberline considered the whole matter as a closed case now. Sam was their man. 

“Ha!” Castiel lets out a single mirthful laugh and turns to walk back towards the corpse of Mary Jane. “The poor fool incriminated himself with those letters. Always wanting to find a grand reaction, always pushing buttons. But no, he never did confess to doing murder to the women, only to the letters and strange experiments within the walls of Bedlam--which, incidentally, did lead to death on many occasions. I hear he even sent half a kidney to Abberline and claimed it belonged to one of the victims.” 

Dean isn’t sure he knows how to feel about this sudden discovery. He has always had the utmost faith and trust in Castiel, even when he did try to hide from the truth of his feelings. Castiel has always been the calm and level-headed sort, certainly not the type to go out and do murder in the name of keeping Dean for himself. Dean has so very misjudged Castiel’s motivations. Why does he not feel terror?

Castiel beckons Dean to come closer, to stand next to him over the body of Dean’s would-be fiancée. Dean moves his feet, though it happens without his control. He is simply by the door one moment, then side by side with Cas in the next.

“There is something you need to do. You must finally choose.” Castiel hands Dean the bloody knife, then steps back to the wall. Dean turns his head to follow Castiel’s movements for a moment, then looks back to Mary Jane at a gesture from Cas. “You know how to finish this, for I know you have reveled in the sight of the work I have done.” 

His mind both reels in horror and dances with joy at the task before him. This is his proving. He must either cut Castiel down where he stands or bind himself forever to the man with this single act. Dean does not make a conscious decision, for it seems his body takes control from his mind. It must be a subconscious thing, out of reach of all morals and sense of right and wrong. His body moves like a snake. He tears into Mary Jane; sinuous are his motions and seductive is the blood. 

It is loud and chaotic until it is suddenly not; a calm deafness envelopes him with soft arms. He can hear naught but his blood rushing through his veins and the heavy, panting breaths that escape his mouth. He rips without thought or sound.

Dean’s mind flashes with the images of his fantasy. He sees Castiel and himself hand in hand in the country with no cares for the world around them. Dean milks the goats while Castiel collects honey from the bees, then when the day's chores are complete, the two will find themselves fit together perfectly in the dark. He wants this, has always wanted this. It must have always been an inevitable thing, whatever it is that has drawn the two men together; a joining of minds and body that is born in blood.

Blood; there must always be blood between the two of them. Dean’s vision returns to him and he gasps in horror at the sight before him. He has ripped poor Mary Jane more thoroughly than any in Whitechapel has been ripped before. Dean drops the knife and collapses off the bed and falls to the floor in an inelegant heap of limbs--chunks of muscle and viscera follow him down to land with a sickening splat. Dean feels as if he must be sick, but somehow manages to keep the vomit firmly within his gut. 

Dean rolls to his back and stares up at the ceiling, still panting his heavy breaths, certain that he will never fully get his wits about him. He is well and truly twisted now; damned with no hope to save his dark soul. 

Castiel moves to stand over him. There is a happy look of utmost pride upon the man’s face, and Dean almost feels as if his sins are all worth it to be looked at with such admiration and love. Castiel moves his mouth, but Dean cannot hear a word. All is quiet and still, no sounds are allowed to distract from this moment.

A gentle hand reaches out for Dean. This is the final test. He has passed his proving with honours and blood. All he has to do is take Castiel’s hand to seal his fate. Resisting does not cross Dean’s mind. He does not think it is something he will be allowed further to do. Not by Castiel, nor by himself. He has resisted enough. 

Dean moves his arm to reach up toward the waiting hand, hesitant and slow. As their fingers brush together and Castiel firmly grasps his hand, Dean’s only thought is that a bargain with the devil has been struck.

Castiel smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Victorian Lexicon:
> 
> “she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid tumble” = she was so drunk, she passed out during sex.
> 
> Tuppence = a twopenny coin. Twelve pennies per shilling, 20 shillings per pound
> 
> Take the egg = win
> 
> Half-shot = drunk  
Knacker = one who collects animal carcases and renders their parts into by-products for other industries
> 
> PC = police constable
> 
> Carman = one who drives a horse drawn cart
> 
> Tart = prostitute
> 
> Toffer = prostitute 
> 
> “prodigious engine” = penis
> 
> Posteriors = rear end
> 
> Dollymop = prostitute (part time, and not professional)
> 
> Dunny = toilet
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute
> 
> Aproner = bartender (also can be used to refer to general tradesmen)
> 
> Squiffed = drunk
> 
> Blootered = drunk
> 
> Section house = the mandated housing for the metropolitan police force (Dean would share his house with at least 6 other PCs, detectives, or investigators from H Division)
> 
> Truncheon = penis 
> 
> Madge = vagina
> 
> Bunter: Prostitute (low class beggar) 
> 
> Braces: suspenders 
> 
> Niminy-piminy: Gay man
> 
> Unnameables: underpants
> 
> "Mind the grease": Said in lieu of “excuse me” when walking through a crowd or trying to pass someone.
> 
> Carriwitchet: conundrum; puzzle
> 
> Mug: asshole; jerk
> 
> Perpendicular: when the pub is so crowded you must eat your dinner standing up.
> 
> Lobcock: flaccid dick
> 
> Nerves: panic disorder and anxiety 
> 
> Morbs: A bout temporary depression
> 
> Melancholia: A long term, severe depression

**Author's Note:**

> A Victorian Lexicon:
> 
> “she got right rumdum an’ had a kip mid tumble” = she was so drunk, she passed out during sex.
> 
> Tuppence = a twopenny coin. Twelve pennies per shilling, 20 shillings per pound
> 
> Take the egg = win
> 
> Bucks Row: Now called Durward Street
> 
> Half-shot = drunk
> 
> Knacker = one who collects animal carcasses and renders their parts into by-products for other industries
> 
> PC = police constable
> 
> Carman = one who drives a horse drawn cart
> 
> Tart = prostitute
> 
> Toffer = prostitute 
> 
> “prodigious engine” = penis
> 
> Posteriors = rear end
> 
> Dollymop = prostitute (part time, and not professional)
> 
> Dunny = toilet
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute
> 
> Aproner = bartender (also can be used to refer to general tradesmen)
> 
> Squiffed = drunk
> 
> Blootered = drunk
> 
> Section house = the mandated housing for the metropolitan police force (Dean would share his house with at least 6 other PCs, detectives, or investigators from H Division)
> 
> Truncheon = penis 
> 
> Madge = vagina
> 
> Bunter: Prostitute (low class beggar) 
> 
> Braces: suspenders 
> 
> Niminy-piminy: Gay man
> 
> Unnameables: underpants
> 
> "Mind the grease": Said in lieu of “excuse me” when walking through a crowd or trying to pass someone.
> 
> Carriwitchet: conundrum; puzzle
> 
> Mug: asshole; jerk
> 
> Perpendicular: when the pub is so crowded you must eat your dinner standing up.
> 
> Lobcock: flaccid dick
> 
> Nerves: panic disorder and anxiety 
> 
> Morbs: A bout temporary depression
> 
> Melancholia: A long term, severe depression


End file.
